


Not Calling You a Ghost

by K9Lasko



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Reality, Drama, Episode: s05e01 Bury Your Dead, Gen, Mystery, NFA Secret Santa 2016, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/K9Lasko
Summary: Norfolk Case Agent Timothy McGee is tasked with solving a years old cold case involving missing Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.





	1. DiNozzo, Anthony D.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fingersnaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fingersnaps/gifts).



> Written for Fingersnaps for the NFA Secret Santa Exchange 2016.
> 
> This story is rated for strong language and graphic depictions of violence.
> 
> Happy New Year 2017!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"You were cold as the blood through your bones  
>  And the light which led us from our chosen homes  
> I was lost._
> 
> _And now I sleep  
>  Sleep the hours that I can’t weep  
> When all I knew was steeped in blackened holes  
> I was lost."  
> \- Below My Feet, Mumford & Sons_

_December 19, 2016 - NCIS Norfolk Field Office_  
  
Barely 8 a.m. on a Monday, and Timothy McGee was in the midst of his pre-workday ritual: Exactly two cups of coffee, exactly fifteen minutes going through personal e-mails, and then exactly thirty minutes going through work-related e-mails that he’d missed from the previous day. After that, he’d begin laying out the day’s agenda, ranking things by priority: Court appearances and depositions, status meetings, phone calls and interviews, leads to follow, computer code to review and tweak, paperwork to complete, file and checkup on, and he couldn’t forget catching up on office gossip. He’d have to make time for an awkward conversation with the cute I.T. girl. Speaking of—  
  
“McGee! You in yet?”  
  
Tim startled as his immediate supervisor rapped on his office door and stuck his head inside. Tim turned to look at him, warily — the man’s face was hard, with steel gray eyes and salt and pepper hair. Tim watched as he came in and slapped a thick file down on top of the explosion of papers on Tim’s desk. It almost knocked over a precarious tower of active-yet-low-priority cases waiting for resolution via the court system.   
  
“Got a phone call from Washington,” Tim’s boss announced with a grimace. He grumbled, "Too early for this shit. Jesus Christ..."  
  
Supervisory Special Agent Bartow Kowalski — a twenty year veteran of the agency — hated bureaucracy, which was probably why he’d passed up numerous promotions, most of which would have relocated him to Washington, D.C., opting rather to stay in Norfolk. He wasn’t one for chit-chat, and this morning, he seemed especially pre-occupied.   
  
“Director Leon Vance.” He tapped the file. “Cold case. Involved one of their agents. Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ team. You remember him?”  
  
“I’ve heard stories…” Tim wasn’t lying. As a junior agent, he’d heard plenty of stories about Gibbs and his less than orthodox way of doing the job. He and his team did things that bent the line, but avoided breaking it. Or at least if they did break it, nobody knew about it.  
  
“Director Vance is going through a bunch of older files, looking to clean some things up,” Kowalski went on, “But this one is priority. Something about optics… Politics.” Kowalski hated politics.  
  
Tim stared at his boss.  
  
Kowalski snapped, “You awake, McGee?”  
  
“Unfortunately,” Tim replied with a frown. “Why is he referring a case with no active leads to a field office? Don’t they have a whole specialized unit for cold cases up there?”  
  
“Fresh eyes, McGee.” Kowalski checked his watch. That was the first sign that this briefing was soon coming to an end.   
  
“I get that. But why Norfolk? Why _me_?”  
  
“I recommended you, McGee,” Kowalski said, sharply. “I vouched for you because you’re my best agent, and you’re a good agent all-around. I know you’ll spend an appropriate amount of time on it. Time no one else has!”  
  
Tim had to admit that might be true. One of his most noteworthy performance reviews actually stated:  _Very smart and capable agent, but his investigative style is rather slow and tedious, and while incredibly thorough, he—_  Tim really didn’t need to bring up old stuff at this juncture. He’d already had enough crises of confidence for one lifetime.   
  
“You been looking for a leg-up? This is your leg-up!”  
  
“Not sure where you got that idea,“ Tim said. “I’m happy where I am-”  
  
“Keep telling yourself that,” Kowalski interrupted him. “FBI Special Agent Tobias Fornell will be calling you in fifteen minutes. Read the file. Take notes.” He looked around at Tim’s office. “And think about straightening this place up. This is the big leagues, buddy.”  
  
Scowling, Tim watched him go. The place _was_ an unholy mess, something Tim wouldn’t deny, but Norfolk was a busy field office. While most of the work was routine and most of the crimes petty, there were a lot of them, which meant a lot of paperwork, which also meant a never-ending revolving stack of to-do’s.  
  
All of which would have to be put off — again — in favor of this outside inconvenience. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then he cleared a space on his desk big enough to fit the file. He’d be dutiful to this case, just as he was to all the others.   
  
He read the file’s tab.  
  
**DiNozzo, Anthony D.**  
  
The name seemed vaguely familiar from briefings and BOLOs, internal NCIS memos and also a couple media reports. But, if he wasn’t mistaken, he hadn’t heard anything more about it for what had to be several years.  
  
Tim flipped the file open.  
  
Anthony DiNozzo, he learned, worked with one of the Washington, D.C. office’s Major Case Response Teams — Gibbs’ team. Tim knew the MCRT worked a number of homicide cases, drug cases, espionage cases and other things involving national security, terrorism, and other major felonies. Some of the Norfolk cases got re-assigned to them.   
  
As a junior agent, he’d once wanted to join that team. But that was years ago.  
  
He’d ruined it for himself by getting caught developing and launching computer malware not sponsored by the agency. Tim had nearly been relieved of his duties for that stupid stunt, and he probably should have been, but his supervisor, Kowalski, had saved his ass, for whatever reason. Bartow Kowalski was a man respected not only for his current contributions to NCIS, but for his substantial contributions while serving as a Navy lieutenant on the U.S.S. Mitscher, and then later as a commander on the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt.  
  
Kowalski also knew Tim’s late father, Admiral John McGee, and there had been plenty of scuttlebutt that claimed Tim’s family relations were his only saving grace.  
  
Somedays, he didn’t know why he stayed here in Norfolk. Other days, he knew he stayed here because he’d ruined his own reputation and attempting to go anywhere else was terrifying.  
  
Tim kept flipping through the file’s contents, taking inventory. The bulk of it comprised a complete personnel file, and the rest of it was a disorganized collection of notes, written testimony, transcripts, copies of DVDs, and bank and credit card statements that showed no activity past the date of disappearance and no major withdrawals of cash. There were photographs, too, of a boat deck turned crime scene, a burnt-out car, weapons. Some of them were of DiNozzo himself, an agency I.D. photo and others, the relevancy of which Tim couldn’t figure out. DiNozzo smiled in most of them. Tim vaguely recalled seeing this guy do press conferences before, years ago. He had “Hollywood good looks” that worked well on camera, not that Tim had ever gone out of his way to notice.  
  
Tim groaned and ran his hands down his face. The case was truly cold. The most recent notes in here were from three years ago, and even those were just a few lines stating that there were no other leads and that some DNA evidence they’d sent out on a hunch to a specialty crime lab in Quantico had resulted in no new findings.  
  
Agent Anthony DiNozzo — or just “Tony” as Tim saw scribbled several times in the notes in reference to the man — had been missing for almost nine years now.  
  
As far as cold cases went, nine years wasn’t arctic cold, but it wasn’t exactly a beautiful summer day either. Tony was one of NCIS’ own, and that always came with baggage. Lots and lots of baggage.   
  
His desk phone rang, and he knew it would be the FBI, as Kowalski had promised.  
  
This new case  _sucked_ , and it wasn’t even nine a.m. yet.

  
***

  
Lunchtime rolled around, and Tim had a tentative plan of attack that might put some warmth into this one. After so many years tucked in a filing cabinet, though, he wouldn’t hold his breath. He had worked several "cold" cases before, ones that his boss put him on due to Tim’s attention to detail, and he’d had moderate success. Of course, those cases were racketeering, fraud, embezzlement, cyber-based, and other related non-violent crimes — not kidnappings, murder, or whatever else. And many of those tended to lapse due to the federal statute of limitations.  
  
He headed for the nearby cafe on Bellinger Boulevard for a quick coffee and sandwich. He brought his laptop and pertinent parts of the file as well, and he figured he’d use the time away from the office to solidify his strategy.  
  
The telephone call with FBI Agent Tobias Fornell had been mostly non-productive, but at least Fornell had explained why Director Vance was pushing for this case to be closed, sooner rather than later. There was a high-ranking Department of Justice vacancy that Director Vance was in the running for, and a still missing and unaccounted for NCIS agent — tied to some other dubious happenings that occurred around that same time period — wasn’t something Vance wanted to see rise to the surface.  
  
But Fornell also made it clear that Tony DiNozzo — the  _person_ , not just the agent — was a very special individual to a lot of people.  
  
“He’s a good guy,” Fornell said, generically.  
  
Tim had noted the present tense… after nine years. Maybe it was a quirk.  
  
“Were you friends?” Tim asked.  
  
“No,” Fornell said. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“Do you think he’s still alive?” Tim knew this was a stupid question, but homicides and disappearances weren’t the norm for him. But despite that, he knew the chances of someone walking home alive after having been missing for several years were basically nil. He didn’t know why he asked the question anyway.  
  
Fornell hesitated. “In my professional opinion, he’s been dead since he went missing. But if he showed up one day, alive, I don’t think I’d be very surprised. They say life is stranger than fiction-"  
  
"The quote is actually 'truth is stranger than fiction,'" Tim corrected, needlessly. "Mark Twain. The full quote is: 'Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn't.'"  
  
There was an awkward pause, but then Fornell went on, "However they say it, fine. But he’s blessed, that guy. He did survive the pneumonic plague, you know.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tim said, “Can you repeat that? I thought you said pneumonic plague.”  
  
“You heard me right. Work the case, Agent McGee. I don’t know if anything will come of it, probably nothing, but when I heard it was being reassigned for further review… Well, I’m okay being hopeful, for the sake of those who gave a shit about DiNozzo. Got it?”  
  
Tim got it.  
  
As he chewed his sandwich, he began to think of when present tense ought to become past tense. Being hopeful wasn’t going to bring anybody home, or find anybody who was missing, or provide answers to things that were mostly unanswerable.  
  
_Hopeful_  was the state of the defeated.

  
***

  
Back in his office, amidst the mess that he hadn’t bothered to touch yet — _some things, he reasoned, were just more important_  — he made his first call to one of the people who’d seen DiNozzo last, right before he’d gone missing.  
  
He called the main NCIS Washington switchboard, hoping to be transferred to the correct party. “This is Special Agent McGee calling for Dr. Donald Mallard, medical examiner.”  
  
“He’s not available at the moment,” the operator said right away. “But I’d be happy to send you to his voicemail.”  
  
“This is official NCIS business. It’s really important that I speak with him.”  
  
After a few too many minutes on hold, all of them spent chewing his fingernails and rehashing the questions he felt he wanted to ask, the call finally went through.  
  
“Morgue. Palmer speaking.”   
  
Tim frowned before he began to explain, “I’m Agent McGee, here at NCIS Norfolk. I need to speak with Dr. Mallard.”  
  
“Well, I’m sorry but,” Palmer said, “he’s a little busy right now. Can he call you back?”  
  
Sure, Tim could leave his name and number, and he could wait however long for a call back. But he’d been doing this job for long enough to know that often, message-takers lost post-it notes, or simply — post-it note or not — nobody would call back for days. “It’s important that I speak with him now.”  
  
Palmer hesitated. “Okay, um… Hang on a minute. What’s your name again?”  
  
“Special Agent Timothy McGee, located here in Norfolk. But it’s regarding a case involving—”  
  
He was cut off and put on hold. A few more minutes ticked by.  
  
Finally, the call clicked off of hold. “This is Dr. Mallard speaking.”  
  
Tim repeated his spiel. “I’m Agent McGee, here at NCIS Norfolk, and I’m just wondering if you have a moment to answer some questions about—“  
  
“Well, that depends,” the man sounded vaguely impatient, as if he’d just been interrupted from several things far more important than whatever inane questions a field office agent from Norfolk might have. “Is this about a pending autopsy? If so you can check—”  
  
“No,” Tim interrupted. He had to admit the man’s accent was rather soothing. He’d heard plenty about the chief NCIS medical examiner in Washington. He was a man very much at the top of his profession. But Tim knew he was no spring chicken, so it was surprising that he hadn’t yet retired. “I’m calling about an unsolved case that I’ve just been assigned. Uh, Anthony D. DiNozzo. I have it in the investigative notes that you saw him not too long before he went missing.”  
  
Dr. Mallard said nothing for the longest time.  
  
“Hello?” Tim asked into the void. “Are you still there?”  
  
“Yes,” finally Dr. Mallard said. “Yes, I am. I’ve just… I haven’t heard that name in years.”  
  
Tim was never really good at dealing with emotions from those he was interviewing, so he just got to the point. “When did you see him last?”  
  
“It’s been so long. I guess I’ve always been hoping…” he trailed off. “When did I last see him?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m fairly certain my answer will be the same as it’s been the countless other times I’ve been asked,” Dr. Mallard said, “but I remember that day I saw Anthony. He’d come down to check up on a few things, and he seemed in a hurry to leave. He said he had to go meet someone for lunch that day and that he was going to be taking a few days off. I didn’t think to ask with whom that might be. See, Tony-- he was always so gregarious; he could make friends with a rock...”  
  
Tim noted how Dr. Mallard did not use the present tense. He knew death when he saw it.  
  
“...So a middle of the week lunch date wasn’t any surprise. And I’m afraid that was the extent of it. He told me he’d see me later, and I told him to take care, and that’s the last I ever saw of him. Of course, earlier, I thought I saw his badly burned and unrecognizable body in my morgue, but that turned out to be somebody else. Thank goodness. But I had a strange feeling… like something bad was coming. I’m assuming you’ve read the details, Special Agent McGee?”  
  
“I have. Somebody else was driving his car before it exploded.”  
  
“So yes, Tony never came back from his few days off, and with whom he met up with that day— I’m sure you’ve also already read that Anthony had been working undercover on an assignment authorized by then director Jennifer Shepard.”  
  
Tim thought he heard some kind of bitter undercurrent to Dr. Mallard’s words. He’d read about the alleged personal vendetta Director Shepard harbored, but he didn’t feel comfortable bringing it up at this juncture. “Right. I’ve got a few threads to work with. Just trying to re-work them and get something fresh.”  
  
“I don’t have anything fresh to share with you, I'm afraid to say. He seemed totally normal to me. But please understand, despite his outwardly affable nature, Anthony was very good at keeping a secret, and I do believe he was keeping many secrets before he was disappeared.”  
  
“‘Was disappeared’,” Tim repeated. “Why do you use that term?”  
  
“Tony didn’t just leave on his own. Due to his special assignment, he’d gotten too close to somebody deeply treasured by a man of dubious and volatile character. Of course, this is purely conjecture, but I have my opinions.”  
  
“You mean the arms dealer, Rene Benoit, and his daughter, Jeanne Benoit. He was found dead in the harbor not too long after DiNozzo’s disappearance.”  
  
“There it is. I see you’ve done your homework, Agent McGee. But like I said, I don’t have anything of substance for you. I just hope that you finally find a way to close this ugly book.”  
  
“I plan to try,” Tim said. Then he re-thought what he’d just said. _Plan to try?_ That didn’t exactly inspire confidence. He pressed a fist against his forehead before opening his mouth to re-state, into the phone, what he meant.  
  
But Dr. Mallard spoke before he had a chance. “I understand, young man. You have been given an unenviable task.”  
  
Before they disconnected, Tim gave Dr. Mallard his direct line, just in case he thought of anything else to share.  
  
He was interrupted not too long afterward by a phone call from Jimmy Palmer, the assistant to Dr. Mallard, and the person who’d answered his first call.  
  
“Before Tony left,” Jimmy said hurriedly, almost in a whisper, “he told me that he was going to order the pastrami on rye.”  
  
Tim listened carefully, hoping this could go somewhere useful. But then Jimmy continued, “Do you think that could be useful? What if it was code for—“  
  
“A sandwich?”  
  
“Sure, why not?”  
  
“Thank you, Palmer,” Tim said, cutting him off. “I’ll add it to my notes and let you know if I have any other questions.” He hung up the phone quickly. They were really grasping at straws now.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Tim stayed at the office late that night. He read the entirety of the file at least three times, and he kept notes on every new possible lead.  
  
Unfortunately, those leads had long been exhausted several times over, and the rest were people long dead: Director Shepard, Rene Benoit, Benoit’s driver.  
  
Jeanne Benoit had been questioned many times before, and each time had been as non-productive as the last. Reading those transcripts and notes had been oddly disturbing for Tim. Ms Benoit seemed to straddle the cusp of hatred and grief. Agent DiNozzo was a sore spot for her, which didn’t seem at all unwarranted. This was a woman who’d been duped into a fake relationship based purely on lies and deception. Tim preferred not to imagine the mind-games that undertaking must have required. The entire thing was fucked up, and at long last, Tim figured out why, exactly, Director Shepard had been suspended in such disgrace.  
  
Then there was CIA officer Trent Kort, the man who claimed responsibility for killing Benoit and dumping him in the canal. But access to him, or anybody in the CIA, was incredibly limited, even to NCIS agents conducting valid investigations, and subject to federally granted, and insured, immunity.   
  
_The death of Benoit,_ the CIA maintained, _had been an agency sanctioned event in order to ensure the integrity of—_ Tim stopped reading the official CIA report and rubbed at his eyes. He put several stars next to Kort’s name. If this case had been open and unsolved for so long, he’d be annoyed if it was because of some CIA officer trying to “clean up” a diplomatic mess.  
  
Tim was pretty sure Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo deserved better than that.  
  
  
***  
  
  
At almost 2000 hours, Kowalski rapped loudly on Tim's office door and stuck his head inside. “What are you still doing here?” he asked.  
  
“This case,” Tim replied, waking up from the stupor he’d sunken into while reading a transcript for the fourth time. He blinked at the mess around him. “Oh shit. Is it really that late?”  
  
“Get out of here, will ya?” Kowalski said.  
  
After he was left alone, Tim began gathering up his things. He decided to take the DiNozzo case home, shoving it into his disorganized computer bag, just in case he came across any new thoughts from now until tomorrow morning. Just in case…  
  
He lugged the bag and himself out of the office and into the cold. He put one ear-bud in as he cued up the “commute music mix” on his iPhone. Then he headed for the bus stop, zipping up his coat to ward off the cold spilling in off the bay. It had started to drizzle, and it clung to his skin.  
  
The bus was mostly empty, just a few other commuters heading off-base for the night. He got his usual seat and read a few e-mails via his smart phone.  
  
When he got off at his stop and headed up the street toward the townhouse he rented on Ocean Avenue, he stumbled over something. Whether it was an uneven spot in the pavement or his own feet, it didn’t matter, because he was going down _and down and down_ hard, his heavy computer bag leading the way… until a passerby yanked him up by the hood of his coat.  
  
Tim got a brief look at the man’s face and froze in shock as he clutched his bag to his chest.  
  
“Watch yourself, McClutz. What do you got, two left feet?” the man said before continuing on at a hurried walk, blending into the dark.  
  
A couple other pedestrians passed Tim by as he continued to stare at the retreating man’s back. They both gave him a wide berth. Tim broke into a jog to catch up with him. He reached out and took the man by the arm. “DiNozzo?” Tim asked, the name dropping out of his mouth in shock.  
  
But the man turned around and yanked his arm away. In the light of the streetlamp and the colored decorations of the homes that lined this road, the man was a complete stranger, with a beard and a frown set deep on his unfamiliar face. “What the hell, man. You’re crazy. Fuck off!”  
  
Tim stepped back, and the stranger continued on. “What…” he spoke to himself. He kept standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to figure out if he was delusional, or just tired.  
  
He was seeing things… _he was seeing things_ …  
  
Finally, when the cold began to cut through both his coat and his racing thoughts, Tim trudged the rest of the way home. He felt off-balance, dizzy, and… yeah, a little bit crazy.


	2. Jigsaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"When the sun sets, shadows, that showed at noon  
>  But small, appear most long and terrible._  
> \- Nathaniel Lee

_December 20, 2016 - 2444 E. Ocean View Ave. - Norfolk, VA  
  
_ “It wasn’t very nice of you to hang up on the autopsy gremlin like that.”  
  
The voice hung in Tim’s ear as he slept, and he batted it away with an uncoordinated arm.  
  
“What if the pastrami on rye is the key to breaking this case wide open, huh? What then, McSherlock?”  
  
Tim sleep-murmured, “No sammy is a clue…”  
  
“That sandwich was pretty damn good, but I bet you’d like to know who I 'met for lunch' that day, and if it has anything to do with what happened to me.”  
  
“Who…”  
  
“Who…?” the voice repeated.  
  
“Owls… owls…” Tim mumbled.  
  
Then he jerked awake and looked around his darkened bedroom in confusion. His cell phone brayed loudly next to him, the screen flashing with an incoming call. He saw the name.   
  
“Shit.” He leaned back onto his pillows and pressed his fist to his forehead as he answered the call. “Hey, Sarah.”  
  
“Tim? Where were you? Are you sleeping?”  
  
He closed his eyes. “I forgot. I’m sorry—“  
  
“You told me you’d be there. I waited around for like two hours after.”  
  
“You didn’t call.” Tim glanced at the clock. “It’s two a.m. right now…”  
  
“I called you at least five times.”  
  
Tim scrolled through his phone. She wasn’t lying. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I got this new case…”  
  
“It’s always work. You’re always too busy to be a brother. Well, what do you have there for you, Tim, huh? You’re underpaid and under-employed. I don’t know why you’re sticking around there.”  
  
“You know why—“ Tim argued.  
  
“Ever since dad died it’s like you’ve just checked out. Where are you, Tim? Your head is miles away from the rest of your body. It’s been years, and it’s the same thing. We never see each other. You never call. You never show up!”  
  
Tim had rarely heard his little sister sound so angry, but he knew it was justified. He was supposed to leave work early to meet her in Georgetown that night and watch her read from a new novel she’d completed. He'd even asked Bartow last week if he could do some work remotely while he drove back to Norfolk the next morning. But the cold case had distracted him, and… He cringed. How the hell had he forgotten about all that?  
  
He always fucked up with Sarah like this. He tried to be a better brother, more present, more supportive, especially when he knew she needed someone on her side after dad died — but as they grew older, they seemed to grow more apart. Sometimes, it felt like they were losing each other, drifting along as separate pieces that used to be part of the same whole.  
  
He didn’t quite know what to do about that.  
  
“I’m trying, Sarah,” Tim said quietly.  
  
“You’re always trying, but you never quite make it, do you.”   
  
Sarah’s words stung.  
  
“But whatever,” she went on. “If you’d like to know, the reading went great.” There was a pause, and she softened her tone. “I wish you could have been there. Let’s try to meet for lunch sometime, okay? Can you do that? Christmas is coming up. We need to figure out what we’re doing for mom. I might be able to drive up to Norfolk for the day sometime this week. What about that deli near the Naval museum? They have great pastrami on rye.”   
  
Tim’s brain switched on. “Pastrami,” he repeated.  
  
“Are you okay, Tim? You seem really spacey.”  
  
“I’m fine. You don't have to drive down here. I’ll be up in D.C. the day after tomorrow for work. That too soon?”  
  
“Right. Work,” she sighed, but agreed, “That would be nice. Where do you want to meet up?”  
  
“Well, there’s this one deli I’d like to try…”  
  
“Just let me know by tomorrow. Look, I should let you go—“  
  
But Tim interrupted her. “Hey, Sarah. I’m sorry about tonight… last night… whenever it was. But this case I’ve been given…” he trailed off. "It's a big deal."  
  
“Just let me know which deli you’re talking about, and we’ll talk then.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
_December 20, 2016 – NCIS Norfolk Field Office_  
  
Tim called Jimmy Palmer first thing in the morning, on a complete and utter lark. “It’s Agent McGee, from Norfolk. I was just curious… That sandwich you were telling me about. Did you know where DiNozzo was going for lunch that day?”  
  
“I thought you’d never ask!” Jimmy said. “If it’s pastrami on rye, Tony usually goes to Jason’s on U street…”  
  
Jimmy Palmer was another person who spoke in present tense.  
  
**  
  
Before the lunch hour rolled around, Tim had scheduled in-person interviews at the Washington office with some of the people who’d known DiNozzo best around the time of his disappearance. All of them cleared their schedules for a chance to speak with the new agent investigating Tony’s case — except for Jeanne Benoit, who seemed reluctant to revisit “the greatest embarrassment of my life” — her words. She finally relented.  
  
The only person Tim couldn’t get ahold of was the former MCRT team leader, Leroy Jethro Gibbs.  
  
According to personnel department records, Special Agent Gibbs had retired less than a year post-DiNozzo disappearance. The notes in the file provided a little more information, but not much.  
  
Supposedly, he’d relocated to Mexico after retirement. No address. No phone number. A prior investigating agent had been nice enough to include a printout of a newspaper article with a headline that read: "Bay Accident Critically Injures Two."  
  
**NO CONTACT INFO**  was circled several times, and highlighted in two colors to emphasize the point.  
  
“I need to find this Gibbs guy…” he mumbled to himself as he flipped through a few more notes. “Ugh, Mexico.” He’d have to sell the idea to Kowalski that a trip to Mexico was necessary for the investigation, but first, he really needed an address, or at least a general location. 'Somewhere in Mexico' seemed a bit… open-ended.  
  
Tim’s phone began to vibrate. He glanced at the text message from Sarah.  
  
**Where do you want to meet?**  
  
He replied:  **It’s called Jason’s and it’s on U street. 1pm. Meet you there.**  
  
It only took a few seconds for Sarah to reply:  **OK. See you Thursday.**  
  
Kowalski stuck his head inside the office. “McGee!” he spoke as abruptly as usual.  
  
Tim jumped and looked up from his work. “Do you have to do that?”  
  
“Only way I can get your attention sometimes, kid.” He glanced around the office and frowned at the mess that hadn't been touched. “Look, I know you’re knee deep in this DiNozzo thing—“  
  
“I’ve got interviews planned for—“ Tim started.  
  
Kowalski barreled forward. He had a field office to run, not a cold case unit. “—But I never intended for it to become priority _over everything else_. The case is cold for a reason. Nothing but dead ends and road blocks, and I know it’s enough to drive a guy nuts.”  
  
“He was one of us. I’m giving it a fair shake.”  
  
“Yeah, which means it’s definitely enough to drive a guy nuts. But listen, McGee, the DiNozzo thing is a quagmire I need you to take on as sort of an… extracurricular, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“The FBI agent I spoke with, Fornell… he seems hopeful. He's looking for results.”  
  
“I'm sure he is. Fornell is an old buddy of Gibbs’, DiNozzo’s old boss. I’m sure you know of Gibbs.”  
  
“Yeah, I do. You already asked me that yesterday.”  
  
“Well, good. Fornell is motivated, let me just put it that way. And believe me, he’s probably sitting over there in the Hoover Building ecstatic that he’s got fresh eyes on this case, and someone he knows will probably sink a lot of time into it. And guess what, he’s not expending any resources on it,  _we are._ ”

"I thought you wanted me to spend time on this?" Tim asked, confused.

"Yeah, I do, because I don't want Director Vance breathing down my goddamn neck more than he already does. But I meant an  _appropriate_ amount of time, Tim. _Appropriate._ "

“DiNozzo was one of us, Bartow,” Tim repeated, loudly. “Don’t you want to know what the hell happened?”  
  
“You’re a case agent, McGee, not a special investigator. You’re my case agent, and when I tell you to lay off of something a bit, I mean for you to lay off of it. Just, for God’s sake, take a step back and breathe. Work the case, yes, but we’ve got paperwork stacking up. Gloria can’t handle it all. She’s going postal. I’ve got Tenney on sick leave, and Bosley... You know, I don't know what the fuck Bosley is doing, but he's busy. I’ve got dozens of sailors that need to give statements on this and that before they ship out again. We’re just freaking swamped here, kid, so I need you to get your head out of the clouds and help out a bit. Can you do that?”  
  
Tim stared at him, but finally he nodded. Kowalski was right, partly. “Got it, boss. Paperwork and statements for the rest of today."

"And tomorrow," Kowalski said.

"And tomorrow," Tim repeated, obediently. "But can I keep the plans in D.C. for Thursday? I’ve already got everything lined up.”  
  
“Sure. Have at it.” Kowalski smacked the doorframe and gave Tim a rare smile. “Good. I guess I'll give you a pass today on the mess of an office you keep here.”  
  
Tim looked again, guilty, at the mess surrounding him. He liked Bartow. He was a good man and a fair boss, and for whatever reason, he saw something in Tim that Tim himself couldn't see, or refused to see. "Pile number one," he murmured as he grabbed a pile and dug in.  
  
  
***  
  
  
_December 21, 2016 - NCIS Norfolk Field Office_  
  
Tim slogged through busy-work for the entire day until well after quitting time. He barely heard Kowalski stick his head in to tell him goodnight and good luck with everything in D.C. He kept working until he began to nod off. He’d cleared away most of the papers on his desk, and his clean desk just made the DiNozzo file even more tempting.  
  
Finally, he opened it up, dug around a bit, and began to read a report done by an Internal Affairs investigator. In it were claims that Agent DiNozzo had become _very_ friendly with the Director, and it went so far as to suggest that the friendliness had extended into an affair on company time.   
  
The evidence was mostly anecdotal, but there had been prior complaints made about DiNozzo for things that were borderline – and possibly over the line - sexual harassment. One female intern complained that DiNozzo and another male employee kept a running tally on how many coworkers they’d slept with, and which coworkers they wanted to sleep with next. Before the complaint was taken, DiNozzo had given this intern an unfavorable review, so it was a toss-up whether her claim was fact or sour grapes.   
  
Outside of this one report, every other personal note Tim had read about DiNozzo as a person and as a sworn agent seemed genuine and charitable. Tony, he read, had a bizarre sense of humor and a gift for gab. He was always, his coworkers said, a dedicated agent and a good friend.  
  
He made notes to add the “affair with Director Shepard” line of thought to his questions. None of the prior statements touched on it. It was worth a look. After all, it was his job to peek into every possible dark corner, even if that involved questioning DiNozzo’s integrity.  
  
Other than the desk lamp, Tim hadn’t turned on any lights, and in the near darkness, his head bobbed again as his mind threatened to nod off into sleep.   
  
“I never slept with her,” someone said, loudly, from the other side of the darkened room. “So you can forget about that.”  
  
“What?” Tim asked. “Who’s talking?”  
  
“Rule 12,” the voice replied.  
  
“Rule what? Huh?”  
  
“Never date a coworker. Though I guess this might be Rule 12a: never sleep with your superior. That’s just bad form.”  
  
“Who am I talking to?” Tim demanded. He stared into the dark like he’d gone blind. He couldn’t see anything but the fuzzy edge of the wall and… nothing.  
  
“You’re talking to Tony. Who else?“  
  
“Of course,“ Tim muttered to himself, sarcastically. "Who else?“  
  
"I read your notes.” The voice was sharp and offended.   
  
Tim covered up his notes on reflex and glared into the dark corner.  
  
“And I know about the report from that crack-pot in IA. You seriously think I was having hot, torrid sex with the director of NCIS? Do you think I’m stupid? Insane? You think I’d throw my career away for that?”  
  
“Just a hunch,” Tim shrugged. “Other people have done worse.” He was certifiable. He truly was, talking to walls and a dead —  _missing_  — guy and the like.  
  
“I’m not ‘other people.’ I was a good agent, and I knew how to keep things professional.”  
  
“People say you two had gotten close,” Tim said. “Scuttlebutt…”  
  
“…Isn’t admissible in court.”  
  
“In the court of personal opinion, it is,” Tim argued. “And everybody knew you were sleeping around the office.”  
  
“Who’s ‘everybody’? Really?” Tony sounded deeply offended now.  
  
“Look, I didn't come up with this stuff. I read it.” He gestured at the file sitting harmlessly on the desk.  
  
“I’m glad I left such a great and lasting legacy,” Tony replied with sarcasm.   
  
Tim decided to back away from the argument. If there was any merit to this bizarre hallucination, he didn’t want to alienate it by pissing it off. “It’s just a hunch, anyway. And if it makes you feel any better, I was hoping you hadn’t slept with her.”  
  
“Nobody but me and her knew about the assignment I was on, so yeah, there were a lot of closed door meetings. Doesn’t mean we were having an affair. Isn’t that in the notes? What kind of two-bit investigator are you anyway, McGee? Shame, I thought you’d be the one.”  
  
“You know my name.”  
  
“Of course I know your name. You’re gonna be the one to finally figure this out. Or at least I thought you were until you brought up this crazy tangent. I could just feel it in my— If I had bones, I would feel it there.”  
  
“I’m dreaming,” Tim said aloud, then he thought,  _Or having a nightmare. Or a seizure._  
  
“Either or, probably doesn’t matter at this point.” Tony could read thoughts, apparently.   
  
And then Tim saw him. Standing right there in the corner. Or rather, leaning very casually against the wall. He looked like he had in the photographs, except instead of a suit and tie, he wore jeans and a hooded zip-up.  
  
“Oh shit,” Tim murmured. “I’m going nuts. I’m seeing things.” He blinked hard, several times. But the vision right in front of him did not waver.  
  
“I’m afraid I’m not dressed for the occasion. I don’t exactly get to choose my wardrobe on this earthly plane. This isn’t my favorite thing to wear, you know? If I could do it all over again, I probably would choose a nice suit. Armani? Zegna? I’ve probably spent more on clothes in one week than you have in a whole year.” Tony looked him over, noting the unremarkable off-the-rack suit coat, and the rumpled shirt, and the tie.. oh that tie. And those shoes. Those shoes, more like dollar store loafers bought on clearance from a working class neighborhood’s thrift shop.  
  
“Hey,” Tim defended himself. “I’ve put myself on a budget.”  
  
“Oh please. You’ve been saving for a house for, what? Ten years now?”  
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
Tony didn’t pause to answer. “—But you haven’t been able to admit that you’re afraid to settle down in Norfolk, even though you’ve been here for over a decade, because that’s too final, right? Gotta tell you, if you haven’t got it figured out by now, McCommitmentphobe, you probably never will.”  
  
“How can you possibly know all of that?”  
  
“You’re afraid to do anything else because you fucked up once upon a time, and you’ve been punishing yourself ever since.”  
  
“How do you  _know_  all of that?” Tim repeated, angry now.  
  
“Hello? Ethereal being here? Plus, I’m mostly in your imagination, which is quite vivid, I’ll add. In other words, I’m in your gray matter. I've got access to all your memories, your thoughts, your hopes, dreams... fears... all that, maybe more but some of it goes into x-rated territory, and _really_ you should probably ask that cute I.T. girl out on a date one of these years...”  
  
“How is that even possible?” Tim said.  
  
"To ask someone out on a date?" Tony said. "Well, McGeek, you've asked the right ghostly vision--!"  
  
"No!" Tim snapped. "I meant the rest of what you said. How is that possible?"  
  
“I can’t answer that.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Against the rules.”  
  
“Rules of what?”  
  
“The ghost-code.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tim yelled at the wall. Then he noticed that Tony had gone, left, vanished… whatever ethereal beings did. Just when he was about to slam his head into the desk to test whether or not he was dreaming, he heard the voice again.  
  
“Have you talked to Gibbs yet?”  
  
After a pause, Tim answered, “Can’t find him. And 'somewhere in Mexico' isn’t really an address. You think he knows something?”  
  
Tony didn’t answer the question. He only offered, “Ask Abby.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“ _Ask_  Abby.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
_December 22, 2016 — NCIS Headquarters, Washington D.C._  
  
Ziva David met him just inside the building’s metal detector and security. She had long, dark curly hair and a gaze that could melt steel beams and quite possibly castrate any man — and quite possibly sterilize any woman — who looked at her wrong. With efficient cat-like grace, she greeted Tim politely with a firm hand-shake and a thin-lipped smile.   
  
Her demeanor remained reserved as she showed him to the elevator and then up to the third floor where, she said, the “bull-pen” was located, as well as the conference room she’d reserved for the interviews. Tim craned his neck around as they passed quickly through the heart of the bull-pen. The walls were a strange shade of orange, and the room had been split up into different sections delineated by gray cubicle walls.   
  
Ziva stopped at one such section, and said, “I worked on Gibbs’ team, as did Tony. Now Special Agent Burley is heading it up. There is me, him, Agent Eleanor Bishop, and Agent Ned Dorneget, but he is transferring to the cyber division soon. I am the only person on this team you are interviewing, no?”  
  
“Yes,” Tim answered. “I mean, no. I mean, yes.” He clamped his mouth shut.  
  
Ziva stared at him. “Okay.” She led him toward the hallway that led to the conference rooms. “The team is out on assignment, but I volunteered to stay behind. Stan knew Tony. Not well, but he knew him. He knew Gibbs better.”  
  
“Stan?”  
  
“Burley.” She unlocked the conference room door, and they both looked at the basic accommodations. Just a long table, some chairs, a shelf at the far end, a couple neutral paintings of bucolic Chesapeake Bay shoreline.  
  
“So…” Tim started, putting his bag down on the table and pulling out his laptop and a crinkled yellow legal pad. “Do you want to be up first?”  
  
“No, but I suppose I drew the long straw.”

Tim couldn't hold his tongue. "Short straw, you mean."

Ziva looked right through him. She noticed the messy state of his bag, and the less than put-together state of his dress, and his hair, in need of a trim. “How long have you worked with NCIS, Agent McGee?”   
  
“Fourteen years,” Tim answered.  
  
She raised an eyebrow. “And you work at the field office in Norfolk?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“For fourteen years, yes?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She nodded but said nothing else.  
  
Tim put his stuff down and approached her, and before he could think better of it, he said, “If you’re questioning my commitment to this case, I’ll strongly refute that.”  
  
“I’m not questioning your commitment, Agent McGee,” Ziva said boldly, “I’m questioning your qualifications.”  
  
Tim’s jaw almost hit the floor, but he carefully picked it back up and stood nose-to-nose with her. “I’d like to get to work.”  
  
She seemed to like what she saw, because finally she softened. But not before gripping Tim hard by the wrist. She spoke close to his ear. “Tony was special to a lot of people, but he was _very_ special to me. I want you to do your work, and I want you to do it well. Can you promise me that you will do well by him?”  
  
Tim nodded, and he kept nodding even while Ziva let him go.  
  
“Thank you,” she said. Then she pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat. “I am ready to answer questions now.”  
  
Tim sat opposite Ziva, and after glancing at his legal pad, asked, “Describe the few days leading up Special Agent DiNozzo’s disappearance.”  
  
She almost flinched, even though she’d said she was ready. Instead of answering, she criticized his non-question. “You should not ask such open-ended questions.”  
  
“Would you rather interview yourself?” Tim shot back at her. After which, he immediately apologized and smoothed the pages of his notepad. “Sorry. Just… answer the question. If you could.”  
  
Ziva folded her arms against her chest. She began, “Tony had been doing a lot of sneaking around for months prior to us discovering what Director Shepard was using him for. I thought he was sick and hiding it from the rest of us… Turned out he was living a double life. On the job with us part-time, and playing house with an arms dealer’s daughter part-time. We knew nothing about it. He did not even tell Gibbs.”  
  
“He and Gibbs were close,” Tim said, more of a statement than question. He already knew DiNozzo’s bond with his boss ran deep.  
  
“Very.” Ziva nodded, and that was all she said about it.  
  
Tim indicated that she could go on.  
  
“When his car blew up, we thought he had been killed. But we were lucky, because — according to Tony — Benoit dropped him off at the front gate. He didn’t even seem bothered, Tony did not. That’s the way he was.” Ziva laughed without much humor.  
  
And Tim could tell that she seemed bothered to be revisiting this, revisiting the topic of Tony and the fact that he’d been there one day and gone the next.  
  
“But Tony knew his cover had been blown, and La Grenouille knew exactly who he was and what he was doing with his daughter. Yet still, he dropped Tony off unharmed at the gate.” Ziva stared at Tim. “Why do you think that is?”  
  
Tim hesitated. “I’m not sure.”  
  
“But you are aware of that?”  
  
“It’s been described in the reports.”  
  
“Tony and I went to find Jeanne, thinking that she was the target of the bomber. We went to the apartment she and Tony shared their fake life. Mind you, for Tony it was fake, for Jeanne, it was real. She had already gone, and I saw how that bothered Tony. He may have been a prankster and a playboy, but he did not play with people’s hearts. It bothered him deeply. He was not one to let things go, and that was when I knew…”  
  
Ziva David, with her sharp yet soulful brown eyes, spoke of Tony in past tense. She seemed the type, all dangerously jagged edges concealed by a woman’s curves. Her affect seemed cold, but underneath, there was depth, and even deeper, warmth. Tim found himself leaning forward, slightly. He wanted to know more.  
  
“That was when you knew what?”   
  
“That he was in love with her. Deeply. He knew he had made a huge mistake.”  
  
“Then what?”  
  
“Then nothing. I was told he was taking a few days off. When I tried calling him, he did not answer, which was not like him. Rule 3.”  
  
“Rule 3?”  
  
“There are rules,” Ziva said simply. “And we follow them.”  
  
“Right.”   
  
“So I went to his home. His actual home, but he was not there.” Ziva stared at the wall, just above Tim’s right shoulder. “I should not have let him be alone.”  
  
Tim wrote some notes.  
  
And Ziva repeated herself, “I should not have let him be alone.”  
  
After the interview, she left with the same thin-lipped smile she’d met him with and a polite, quiet goodbye. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Special Agent McGee.”

Watching her go, Tim felt suddenly weary, all the way down to his bones. He chewed on his pen and waited for next interviewee to step through the door.  
  
**  
  
But when Abigail Sciuto entered the room, he felt the energy. He looked up and met her green eyes. They smiled at the same time, Abby, with enthusiasm, and Tim, more reserved. He stood up and held out a hand. “I’m Special Agent Timothy McGee. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today. I just have a few questions—”  
  
“Okay.” Abby sat down and put both of her hands on the table. “So, I’ve been excited about this interview since you called,” Abby said, her infectious smile spreading across her face.  
  
“Why?” Tim asked, warily.  
  
“I’m your _biggest fan_ , Agent McGee,” she said.  
  
“Why?” Tim repeated, with extra wariness.  
  
“Your hacking malware,” Abby said. “It was  _brilliant_. I mean, I’ve never seen anything work so—“  
  
“You know about that?” Tim seemed deeply embarrassed.  
  
“Of course! You were only the hero of the entire cyber division here.”  
  
“Really?” Tim frowned.   
  
“Yeah, and while I guess what you did was  _technically_  against rules and regs, that doesn’t take away from how brilliant your work is.” She tried to tamp down her excitement, but she only succeeded in making herself bounce some more. “How much trouble did you get in for it?”  
  
“Lots. I’ve lost out on some promotions because of it.”  
  
“That’s crazy. Hey, do you think you’ll have time to work on some things with me when we’re done? I’d love to hear what you think about some of this code I’m working on—”  
  
“I don’t know. I’m kind of busy with…” He looked around at his crumpled notes. “This.”  
  
“Right! Tony first.” Abby nodded. “What would you like to know? I'm an open book. Ask me anything.”  
  
Turned out, Abby didn’t know much of anything about Tony’s last days, a fact that — Tim learned — deeply troubled her. Through Abby Sciuto’s rambling testimony, he’d learned that Tony and her had been quite close. She had even admitted that they’d slept together on more than one occasion, though it was strictly a "friends-with-benefits", "super-fun-recreational" situation. They were very good friends, and that was that.  
  
“We never dated.” Abby laughed at that notion. “He used to say I was too smart for that. But to be honest, neither of us wanted a relationship with each other.”  
  
She hadn’t known about Tony’s double-life as DiNozzo/DiNardo, but she had suspected that he’d taken on some sort of steady relationship. The many times she had pressed him about it had been quickly shut down.  
  
“That’s not like him at all, McGee. Tony had a habit of telling me everything. We'd confide in each other. But with this assignment Jenny put him on… He just, he quit talking to me. He quit talking to anybody. That's not like him," she repeated, emphatic. "He tells me everything."  
  
**  
  
After Abby, next up was Jeanne Benoit. This was the conversation Tim knew might be most useful, but it was also one he was most dreading.  
  
She showed up promptly, greeted him coldly, and sat down in the chair, stiff as a board.  
  
“So, let’s…” he started, only to be interrupted.  
  
“In the past, whenever you people have questioned me, I’ve let it be known how much I hated Tony DiNozzo, or whatever his name actually was.”  
  
“Do you still hate him?”  
  
“It’s been nine years.”  
  
“That’s not really an answer,” Tim said.  
  
She shifted in her chair. “In other words, I’ve had nine years to work through things. But the one thing I need, I’ll never get.”  
  
“And what’s that?”  
  
“I want to ask him if,” Jeanne looked away, looking embarrassed. Then she turned back to Tim. “I’ve always wanted to ask him if any of it was real.”  
  
Tim let that hang in the air between them, but he didn’t have much of anything to say in reply to it. Instead, he asked, “Your father told you who he was?”  
  
“He did,” she answered. “Tony also told me who he was, right after his car blew up. I think I was in shock; I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. It was... It was all a shock.”  
  
“And you didn’t see Special Agent DiNozzo after that.”  
  
“No, I didn’t. I went home — numb and in disbelief. I went to the home we had shared together. I packed my things, and I left. Quickly. I was embarrassed and humiliated that I’d been duped by that jerk.”  
  
“You didn’t call him afterward, or anything like that?”  
  
“No. I didn’t want anything to do with him.”  
  
“Did your father show any interest in Special Agent DiNozzo in the days immediately afterward?”  
  
“I don’t know. He told me that he’d dropped Tony off at work.” Jeanne set her jaw. “His real work.”  
  
“When did you find out that Special Agent DiNozzo had gone missing?”  
  
“I didn’t know until I was called in for questioning. I had no idea until then.”  
  
“Did you want him dead?” Tim asked immediately afterward. His aim was to throw her off, and he succeeded.  
  
Because she quickly answered, and without much thinking, “Yes.”  
  
Tim raised a brow.  
  
Jeanne challenged him with a firm jaw and an icy expression. “I was so angry. He was such a… _a liar_. And he was so convincing. And here I was thinking he was such a great guy, and how had I gotten so lucky. And maybe he was the one.” She shook her head in disbelief. “He was just another jerk. He did this for his job, his job was to lie to me, I was told. He made me love him so he could use me. Did I hear an apology from him, afterward? No. I didn’t.”  
  
“Afterward, he went missing,” Tim said. “Could have explained that.”  
  
“Maybe he got what he deserved,” she suggested harshly. She tried to maintain her tough exterior, but something was starting to crack.  
  
“No one’s heard from him since," Tim said. "No one knows where he is or what might have happened to him. We assume he’s dead, of course. Soon after, your father was found dead in the canal.”  
  
Jeanne flinched.  
  
“But no sign of Tony," Tim went on. "Is it true that you told investigators that you thought Tony murdered your father, and that you saw him do it?”  
  
Jeanne looked away.  
  
“Is that what you said?” Tim urged, gently.  
  
“You probably have the transcript,” she said.  
  
“I want to hear it from you, not the file.”  
  
“Yes, I did say that. But after, I admitted it was a lie.”  
  
“So, you never saw Tony kill anybody. You never saw him at all.”  
  
“No, I didn’t.”  
  
Tim said nothing, just continued to flip through a few more of his notes.  
  
“Nine years,” she went on. “And I’m still not…”  
  
“You’re not what?”  
  
“Over it. Healed from it. Just when I think I’d gotten past all that, it all comes back again. Like a scab getting ripped away. I carry it with me, this _humiliation_. I carry him with me, who I thought he was, that lying sack of—“  
  
Tim reached across the table to tap her hand. “Let’s stay on topic.”  
  
“I don’t know anything that you need to know. I have nothing to give you. I want to hate him.”  
  
“Now I’m confused. You’ve already stated that you hate him.”  
  
“No, I said that in the past I’d hated him.”  
  
“Okay. And what about now?”   
  
“And now I wish I had something for you to go on,” Jeanne admitted.  
  
Tim hid his surprise.  
  
“I need to forgive. It’s time for me to forgive. I’m tired of this hatred. I need to let this go, and," her voice faltered and her eyes stayed focused on the tabletop, "Tony needs to be found.”  
  
**  
  
With the interviews wrapped up and little of anything to show for the effort, Tim went to evidence storage to see what was in locker 394, the one assigned to the DiNozzo case.  
  
There wasn’t much in there, and most of it had already been referenced several times in the file.  
  
But then he found an unfinished written report that looked unfamiliar. It was handwritten, not typed, and the handwriting looked rushed and sloppy. The piece of paper was wrapped in protective plastic, and briefly, Tim wondered why a copy hadn’t been made for the file.  
  
He read, haltingly due to the handwriting:  
  
_“Director Shepard instructed me, in not so many words but I interpreted the meaning to be the same, to go ahead and have sex with her. She told me whatever we got from these tactics would be well worth it. But I’d like to report, on the record, it’s my opinion and firm belief that none of the information I’ve obtained from Jeanne Benoit has been of operational significance for this investigation, and I respectfully request my relief from this assignment. Furthermore, I doubt the operational significance of this entire investigation. I feel personally and morally responsible for every wrong I’ve done in connection to this assignment. I feel like this is nothing put personal vendetta, something which should not be sanctioned by this agency, but for what—”_  
  
The handwriting suddenly stopped. The paper had been deeply crinkled, as if it had been balled up and probably tossed aside. Tim had read all of Tony’s official reports related to his assignment, and this hadn’t been a part of any. He could only guess that this one had been meant to be thrown away, or shredded, or otherwise destroyed.   
  
If Tony was doubting Shepard’s motives, he seemed to hesitate to make it known. Whether that was out of misplaced loyalty, or because of a lack of solid evidence to support his claims, Tim couldn’t know.  
  
He put the paper down.  
  
“It had been a personal vendetta,” Tim said to the wall of the evidence garage. Rene Benoit’s arms dealing secrets weren’t the target, but the man himself was. And Shepard thought the key to the father would be found with the daughter. One could argue that scum like Benoit, peddling weapons to terrorists and warlords alike, deserved whatever was coming. He had blood on his hands and deserved, for lack of better terms, to be burned at his own stake.  
  
There was nothing now but silence and the eerie echoing booms of storage lockers slamming shut at the opposite end of the garage. He reached for something shiny further inside the locker.  
  
He looked down at the bracelet, still in its evidence bag and held by his double gloved hands – could never be too careful. He turned it over in his grip, wondering what the hell this strange piece of jewelry was doing in this locker.   
  
Then he saw what was engraved on it:  _Tony. Love Jeanne. Mental Ward._  
  
He thought of the frustration in Jeanne Benoit’s voice. It became all too real, and completely understandable.  _Like a scab getting ripped away._  
  
Tim didn’t know what to feel about DiNozzo’s skill of deception, both impressed and unimpressed. He thought of what kind of man it took to keep that up for several months.  
  
Again, he asked the wall, “Did you fall in love with her?”   
  
He felt something behind him and he flinched and turned.  
  
“That was the point, wasn’t it?” Tony said without emotion.  
  
“But was it the truth?”  
  
“I’m not going to stand here and say I was a good person.”  
  
One of the doors near him banged open and an evidence technician wheeled in a cart laden in firearms. He observed Tim coolly, before he asked, “You need any help there?”  
  
Tim’s gaze was a bit owl-eyed, but after a recovery moment, he shook his head. “No, I think I’m good.” He took a quick photo of the crinkled report, then he placed the things back into the locker and shut the door. This was another wasted trip. There was nothing much to glean from these forgotten artifacts.  
  
The evidence tech nodded and continued to roll his cart to the far end of the garage.  
  
Tim’s cell phone rang. Something in his chest dropped toward his knees as he suddenly remembered something important.  
  
_Shit. Sarah._  
  
**  
  
He gathered his stuff and rushed outside. He managed to pick up the call on the sixth ring. “Sarah—“ He answered breathlessly. Out in the cold, steam rose from his mouth when he spoke. He found himself wrapping himself up tight in his coat.  
  
“I didn’t bother calling you after you didn’t show up today for lunch,” Sarah said. “Are you even in D.C.?”  
  
Tim checked his watch. It was 1700 and already dark. He closed his eyes and slid a hand down his face. This was awful. “Yes I am, Sarah, I’m so sorry. Things just got— I got caught up with--“  
  
“Forget about it. If you cared, you’d make the time instead of coming up with these excuses. I get it. You’re busy… You’re working…”  
  
“Sarah—“  
  
“Mom called me today,” she changed the subject. “She was cleaning out the attic and found a bunch of dad’s things. She wants to know if you want any of them but couldn’t get ahold of you. Quite the surprise.”  
  
“I must have missed her call.”  
  
“Of course. Are you going to be there at mom’s? For Christmas Eve?”  
  
“Aren’t I there every year?” Tim said, getting annoyed by Sarah’s accusations. He knew he’d been a less than attentive son for the past several months, but he didn’t need it smeared in his face.  
  
His relationship with his father had always been rocky, but his death had cut him down to the bone. Now, two years later, it still stung him. Nobody had clued him in on how painful it was to lose a parent. It was something he knew, logically, happened to most everybody at some point — but that didn’t make the pain any less real or any less intense. His dad had made him into who he was today, like it or not. And his mom had, too. He’d become everything they were, even some things he didn’t want to become: His father’s preoccupation with work, and his mother’s propensity toward the risk-averse… He also knew he was letting his dad down, languishing in Norfolk. Doing good work, but not necessarily going anywhere with it.  
  
He knew his mom also felt her own pain. She and dad had separated years ago, when Tim was barely a teenager, but their relationship had never seemed completely broken. There had always been _something_ left.  
  
“No, Tim,” Sarah was saying. “You weren’t there last year. Remember?”  
  
Tim’s heart sank.   
  
The connection clicked off. He looked at the phone in disbelief.  
  
“Don’t blame me,” Tony said, his mood surprisingly morose from where he leaned against the lockers, arms crossed against his chest.  
  
“I’m not,” Tim shot back at him.  
  
“You forget that I can read your mind,” Tony said.   
  
“Maybe I can read yours, too.”  
  
Tony challenged, “Try.”  
  
Tim glared at him. He couldn't read Tony's mind, because Tony was just a vision. He wasn't real. “I wish I’d never been given this case,” he snapped.  
  
“Fair enough. But you can’t stop now, can you?”  
  
“Wish I could. It’s nothing personal,” Tim said.  
  
Tony was gone after that, suddenly. Tim stared into the corner and joked, darkly, “What? Was it something I said?”


	3. The Book of Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"It's no one's business but mine  
>  That all this love  
> Has been in vain._
> 
> _In you I'm lost.  
>  In you I'm lost."_
> 
> _\- Present Tense, Radiohead_

_December 22, 2016 - NCIS Headquarters, Washington D.C.  
  
It’s nothing personal. _  
  
Tim’s brain replayed that, and other things, on repeat. Was it possible to offend a ghost, of sorts, who wasn’t even real? Not that  _any_  ghosts were real. But—  
  
“They gave you an office?” Abby asked, looking around the cramped quarters with a small grin. It was more like a closet than an office. There were some hooks sticking out of the far wall.   
  
Yes, definitely a closet.  
  
Tim looked up and gave her a thin grin. “It’s temporary. Just so I have a place to spread out while I’m doing work here in D.C.”  
  
“I don’t think you’ll be spreading very far,” she commented wryly. Then she asked, “Are you driving back to Norfolk tonight?”  
  
“No. Too much of a drive.”  
  
“Do you have a place to stay?”  
  
Tim shrugged. “Will probably hunt around for a hotel room nearby. They’ve given me a little bit of a budget to work with…”  
  
“Why don’t you stay at my place,” Abby suggested. He gave her a doubtful look, but before he could argue against it too strongly, she said, “Oh c’mon. It’s no problem. Plus, maybe I can quiz you about computer stuff.”  
  
“I’m not sure about that.”  
  
She grinned. “You’re totally modest about your wizardry, aren’t you? I can’t believe it.”  
  
“Yeah well, that wasn’t my finest moment. I almost got kicked out of the agency in disgrace.”  
  
Still grinning, she leaned against the doorframe. “But you didn’t. I heard your dad was some kind of admiral?”  
  
“Yes,” Tim said, cautiously. “He was, but that had nothing—“  
  
“Oh, I know. But people love to talk.” She shrugged. “So how about it? I’ll drive.”  
  
  
***  
  
_December 22, 2016 - Abby's apartment - Washington D.C._  
  
Abby Sciuto’s place was a bit small and crowded by quirky, eclectic furnishings. Tim eyed a bed that looked suspiciously like a coffin.  
  
“What,” he asked in alarm, “is that?”  
  
“Oh,” Abby laughed. “I won’t make you sleep in that. Unless,” she gave him a look, “you give me a reason to.”  
  
“Is that a threat?” Tim joked.  
  
“Do you want it to be?” She laughed. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable and at home. Un-tighten that ugly tie a notch.”  
  
Tim remembered Tony’s ridicule of his tie. He put a protective hand on it.  
  
They made conversation, back and forth, while Abby put some things away.  
  
Finally, she asked, trying and failing miserably to sound casual, “You want to look at the Book of Tony? Since you’re here?”  
  
“The what?”  
  
Abby pulled a photo album from her cluttered book shelf. “Nobody keeps photo albums anymore. You ever notice that? Our pictures are on our phones, or on our computers. Or a thumb drive.” She sat down on the couch beside him. “There’s something about an actual, physical photo album that just…”  
  
Tim looked at the cover. It was just a plain, bargain-priced photo album.   
  
She opened it up, and the first photo on the first page was enough to make her bite her lip. Tim looked at it alongside her, politely. He never liked looking through stranger’s photo albums. He found that even his family’s old albums were filled with mostly strangers from times he couldn't remember.   
  
But Abby went through the photographs with a kind of reverence that drew Tim into the fold.   
  
He noticed that Tony loved to smile, and he was photogenic, too. That big grin and those warm hazel eyes could draw anyone in and make them feel welcome. Clearly, Abby had lovingly curated this book, and she seemed keen on sharing it with any who might share a similar interest.  
  
She tapped on one of the pictures. Tony leaned up against a green 1960’s era Mustang convertible. A classic. “That’s the car that blew up,” Abby said, and then she added, a little distantly, “He loved that car.”  
  
She kept flipping the pages. Kept pointing things out. Kept smiling fondly at old memories.  
  
Tim almost felt like a voyeur, taking a peek at something he’d never been a part of and something he'd never been invited into: Tony’s life, and the vibrancy of it, and the fact that he’d been very loved by those who knew him best.  
  
Then came the blank pages, when the memories ended suddenly, and the photographs did, too. Tim caught Abby staring at the first blank page with guarded grief. Awkwardly, he sat still beside her and waited to see if it would pass. It did. Eventually. She shut the album and gripped it tightly in her hands.  
  
“And that’s the Book of Tony,” she said, matter-of-fact.  
  
“I liked it.” Tim watched her. “Thank you. I’ve read about what kind of agent Tony was, but…” He shrugged and looked away as he chewed his lip. “Guess it’s nice to see something more personal.”  
  
He felt Abby’s eyes on him, and when he met those eyes again with his own, he felt like he might fall into them. He knew this wasn’t right, to be here like this, but he had a hard time looking away. For the first time, he noticed how close they were sitting on Abby’s aging couch in her cramped apartment. But all Tim wanted to do was curl up in those eyes and rest.  
  
Suddenly, Abby moved her face toward him, aiming her lips for his. At the last moment, the last split second before he would’ve otherwise probably been lost — because he was a guy and he felt like he hadn’t connected with a woman in eons — he flinched and pulled away. He blurted, breathless and slurred, “Rule 12.”  
  
She froze and gave him a look. First it was of shock, then it was of suspicion. “What did you just say?”  
  
“Nothing,” he quickly said.   
  
“I thought I heard you say something. Something that made me think.”  
  
Tim was glad one of the them was thinking. “I just…” He let out a gusty breath and sunk into the couch cushions behind him. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. We’re professionals.”  
  
“Off the clock, in my home,” Abby countered.  
  
“Well…” Tim hemmed and hawed.  
  
“But you’re right.” She started to get up off the couch, taking the Book of Tony with her. “We barely know each other.”  
  
But Tim reached out for the photo album again. He was pleading for her not to make this weird. “Wait. There is something I want to know, and… I thought you might be the one to ask.”  
  
He wanted to tell her:  _Tony told me to ask you._  But he knew that was crazy talk.  
  
She let him have the book, but only after Tim pried the beloved thing from her grasp. He reopened it and went right to a page he remembered. He pointed at the photograph. It was of Tony and an older gray-haired man. They both squinted into the sun, Tony’s arm draped across the other’s back. Tony smiled broadly while the other man’s smile was close-lipped but no less genuine.  
  
“Oh, I love that picture. Kind of a rare moment for those two.”  
  
“That’s Gibbs isn’t it.”  
  
Abby nodded, but she seemed to hesitate, like she was holding something back. She carefully pulled the photo from the plastic sleeve. She held it out for Tim. “Here.”  
  
Tim stared at the photograph, and then he took it, automatically. “I need to talk to him. The file says he’s living in Mexico and it doesn’t provide an address—“  
  
“He moved back here maybe two years ago,” Abby interrupted him, but she didn’t offer anything else.  
  
“That makes things easier.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Why do you say that?” Tim asked.  
  
Abby considered her words before answering. “He’s cut everybody out of his life. And I guess we’ve… let him do that. Seems to be what he wants, to be alone in that house. It took a while, but everybody lets him be now. It’s in everybody’s best interest.” She had a hard time keeping the emotion from her voice, and she couldn’t seem to hide the raw hurt. “His dad passed away about two years ago. He came back to the states for the funeral, and he decided to stay. But to all of us, he was as absent as ever. He might as well have stayed in Mexico. He could drink himself to death just as well down there as he could up here. None of us want to watch him do it.”   
  
She set her jaw. Tim could see the anger and the frustration under the surface. There was love there, too, somewhere. She cared; she probably had never stopped caring. He couldn’t judge the decision she’d made to let it go. Some things just couldn’t be put right.  
  
_Forget about it_ , Sarah had said earlier that afternoon.  _If you cared, you’d make the time instead of coming up with all of these excuses. I get it. You’re busy… You’re working…_  
  
“We used to be family. All of us,” Abby went on. “After Tony… Everything changed.” She got up and put the book on the shelf, and this time Tim didn’t stop her. “Tony tore us all apart.”   
  
He moved awkwardly to give the photograph back to her, unsure of what to make of her statement, but she shook her head. “Keep it. I have the digital copy. Here—“ She took it and wrote an address on the back. “Gibbs’ address. Good luck.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tim said.  
  
“Tell him hello. Tell him we miss him. Tell him we all still love him.”  
  
“Sure.” Tim nodded, awkwardly.  
  
“I told you, right, that Tony used to say I was too smart to date him.”  
  
“Right, you did.” Tim gave her a strange look.  
  
“Well, you’re too smart to date me.” Abby leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Would it be weird if I said that it feels like I’ve known you for longer than today?”  
  
Would it be weird if he told her that he’d just talked to Tony a few hours ago? Probably.   
  
“No.” Then he smiled. “But I’m definitely not sleeping in that coffin.”  
  
**  
  
Later that night, Tony asked, “She showed you the Book of Me, didn’t she?”  
  
Tim almost fell over as he was taking off a sock. “Hey!” he hissed at Tony who was clearly having fun watching Tim undress. He held his shirt in front of his chest. “Not so loud! And get out of here, will ya?”  
  
“She can’t hear me,” Tony said. “But she can hear you.”  
  
Tim frowned and sat on the bed, still covering himself with the shirt. “I need to put a bell on you or something.”  
  
“Wouldn’t help much. I am, after all, stuck in your head,” Tony reminded him. “Very unfortunate.”  
  
Before Tim could even come up with a fitting rejoinder, Tony asked, “Did you ask about Gibbs?”  
  
Tim nodded. “He’s here. In D.C.”  
  
Tony smiled, and his relief over the news surprised Tim. “Are we going there?” he asked.  
  
“That’s the plan.”  
  
Just then, Abby said from outside. “Everything OK in there, Tim?”  
  
Tim turned to give Tony an “oh shit” look, but he’d already gone. He said, loud enough to be heard clearly outside the door, “Everything’s good. Just on the phone.”  
  
When she seemed assuaged by that, he let out a breath and, giving the room a cursory look, he finished changing and slid under the seats.  
  
“So,” Tony said, somewhere near his ear, “when are we going? Soon?”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Tim mumbled.  
  
“So how long is that from now? Keeping track of days is kinda impossible for ethereal beings.”  
  
“How does that even work?”  
  
“I sort of exist outside the continuum of time,” Tony said.  
  
“You sound like a bad sci-fi novel.”  
  
“Well, I am here trapped inside your head. I think there’s material for a whole lot of bad sci-fi novels locked in here. Hey—“  
  
“Tony?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Several moments of silence stretched out after that, leaving room for only the dull buzz of the refrigerator on the other side of the door, in the kitchen.  
  
But then, “So when are we going?”  
  
  
***  
  
  
_December 23, 2016 — Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ house, Washington D.C._  
  
Tim pulled his car up in front of a craftsman style home situated on about a half acre lot. The flower beds looked overgrown and neglected, but other than that, everything seemed as neat as a pin.   
  
He walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. After a minute or two, he rang it again, a couple times. He heard something thump loudly inside. Tim put a hand near his hip and reached out to twist the doorknob.  
  
The door was unlocked and it opened easily. It swung inward revealing a dark foyer and air that smelled thickly of dust and a lack of basic housekeeping.   
  
“Hello?” he called out, hand still hovering near his hip. It had been a while since he had to use his weapon while out on assignment, but his scores at the range were always top-notch. “I’m Special Agent McGee. Just here to ask you some questions. I left a message on your machine?”  
  
Nothing but silence and a lonely ticking clock greeted him.  
  
“Hello?” Tim shut the door loudly, thinking that would hopefully wake someone up. Perhaps stupidly, he edged further into the house. With his luck, he’d probably find the guy dead somewhere in here. Abby had said he’d descended into alcoholism, and judging by the dank smell around here, he wasn’t taking care of himself or this house.  
  
As he turned the corner that would have led to the living room, Tim felt something brush the hairs on the back of his head. He froze and held his breath.  
  
“Don’t move,” somebody whispered behind him.   
  
Tim heard the distinct sound of a gun cocking. He held out his empty hands. “Gibbs? I’m Special Agent McGee from NCIS Norfolk. I’m just here to chat.”  
  
“I don’t want to chat,” Gibbs replied. “You get that?”  
  
“I get it—“  
  
“I don’t think you do.”  
  
“Well,” Tim reasoned, and maybe he’d gotten a bit too bold about all of this. “If you’re okay with shooting a federal agent...” He left the rest go unsaid, and he let out a breath as he felt the gun being pulled away. When he turned around to look at this man eye-to-eye, was surprised by what he found.  
  
Gibbs looked rough, and that was putting it nicely. He’d grown a beard, and his hair looked untrimmed and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was drawn and greasy. His clothes hung from him, rumpled and probably in need of a washing. He swayed on his feet, oddly.  
  
He’d been drinking, and that fact was confirmed by the eau de distillery emanating from his pores and his unsteady gait. But other than that, he seemed “with it” enough to know what was going on.  
  
“How about we sit down?” Tim suggested, calmly. “That okay?” He gestured toward the kitchen table that was strewn with unopened mail and at least a month’s worth of unread newspapers.  
  
Gibbs grunted and put the weapon down. He grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of bourbon. He poured a few fingers in both, sliding one glass Tim’s way.  
  
He shook his head. “I’m good, and I think you might be, too.”  
  
Staring right through him, Gibbs said, “Only thing safe in this house.” He sat heavily at the table. “Sit.”  
  
Tim sat.  
  
“So, you’re here to ask me about DiNozzo. That right?”  
  
“Somebody told you,” Tim said. “I never said that in the message I left on your machine.”  
  
“I’ve got people I don’t deserve.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that; Abby said—“  
  
“Ask me,” Gibbs interrupted, with little patience, “about Tony.”  
  
Tim went quiet. This man looked ragged, bone-tired right down to the marrow and the quick. His mind might have been made dull by the alcohol, but his heart remained intact. He looked almost desperate as he sat there, waiting for something, anything.  
  
Out of deference to perceived authority, or just plain old stupidity, Tim brought the glass of bourbon to this lips and took a sip. Liquid courage, they called it. _When in Rome…_ He winced at the burn and caught Gibbs’ smirk. “I was just assigned to this case a few days ago,” Tim explained. “I’ve done some other interviews…” he trailed off.  
  
Gibbs waited.  
  
Then came Tim’s first question. It kind of fell out of his mouth, unbidden: “Do you think DiNozzo was sleeping with Director Shepard?”  
  
If Gibbs was surprised, he didn’t show it. He stared at Tim blankly for a while. Then, he answered honestly, “I don’t know. Lot of things I didn’t know about him. That?” He shook his head. “He’s not stupid.”  _Not like I was_ , went unspoken.  
  
Tim nudged, “You’d know better than most."  
  
“Wrong,” Gibbs said. “There was a disconnect between the two of us, after I did some things… Made some choices.”  
  
“So you had no idea DiNozzo was working on a special assignment from Director Shepard?”  
  
“He was running errands for her. I knew that much.”  
  
“But you didn’t know what kind of errands?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Did you ask what he was doing?”  
  
Gibbs looked annoyed. “Yes.”  
  
“And what did he say when you asked?”  
  
Now Gibbs looked even more annoyed. “He didn’t say a damn thing.”  
  
“He didn’t answer your questions?”  
  
“No. He’d answer like he sometimes does. Nonsensical. He was annoying like that. He could talk circles around me.”  
  
“Did you press the subject?”  
  
“He wouldn’t talk to me about it, and when I went to Jen, she told me to leave it alone.”  
  
“When you found out what he’d been doing, were you angry?”  
  
“I was,” Gibbs admitted.  
  
“Did you tell him that?” Tim asked.  
  
Gibbs watched as Tim scribbled things in his legal pad. He leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I didn’t need to. He already knew I was pissed.”  
  
“Special Agent Ziva David seems to think he fell in love with his mark while on assignment,” Tim said.  
  
Gibbs neither confirmed nor denied that. He simply said, “Jen was wrong to put him on that job; she didn’t know him like I did. Tony could be stubborn, but he knew how to follow orders. This time, when Jen asked, he did whatever she said.” He shook his head. “Wish he hadn’t. Wish he’d questioned her and challenged her, but he didn’t. I don’t know why.”  
  
“People say they got close, Director Shepard and Special Agent DiNozzo.”  
  
“It seemed that way. I think it took him a while to respect her.”  
  
“What do you think changed for him?”  
  
Gibbs sat there in thought, and Tim waited patiently. Finally, Gibbs said, “Jen—“ He stopped, then started again, “Director Shepard played things close to the vest. She saw Tony and knew what she wanted him for. So she drew him in, gave him some compliments, played to his insecurities.”  
  
“Because she wanted him to do this assignment for her,” Tim finished.  
  
Gibbs then took his glass and drained it. He put it back down on the table, hard. “I know who was involved with Tony's disappearance. It’s the only answer.”  
  
Tim looked surprised by the sudden proclamation.   
  
“Trent Kort,” Gibbs answered before he could ask.  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
Gibbs leaned forward. “He had a real problem with DiNozzo, and the feeling was mutual.”  
  
“There’s not much in the file about Kort,” Tim said.  
  
“There wouldn’t be. CIA’s been running something big for years now, and Kort is their guy.”  
  
After nearly another half hour of cyclical questions and answers, Gibbs showed Tim “the room.” It had become dedicated to Tony’s disappearance. There were photographs everywhere, notes, half-baked theories. And there was Trent Kort’s face staring morosely from a photograph in the middle of it. Gibbs glared at it. Tim could almost feel the hate.  
  
“No evidence to connect Kort with Tony’s disappearance?” Tim asked. He knew it was a dumb question, because if there had been any evidence, it would be mentioned in the file.  
  
“No,” Gibbs said. “Just a gut feeling.”  
  
The continued to stare at the room, and Tim found himself getting a little creeped out. “This must be hell for you,” he observed among the ever-widening gulf of silence.  
  
Gibbs replied, “The worst kind of hell. Most days, I deserve it.”  
  
**  
  
“I bet you’d love to know what happened to me,” Tony said from some hidden corner. Tim startled and whirled around. He’d snuck down here to Gibbs’ basement, just to check things out, after the older man had fallen asleep — or more like passed out — on the couch upstairs. One minute Tim said he’d let himself out, and the next Gibbs was in a boozy sleep in the living room.  
  
When Tim finally found Tony, he wasn’t surprised to see him seated on one of the sawhorses. He was dressed in what he always wore during Tim’s visions. Jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Not, as he’d said before, his first choice.   
  
“Bet it’s bugging the hell out you and that huge brain of yours. I’m right in front of you, the only one who knows.”  
  
“Not the only one.”  
  
“Oh really?” Tony smiled. “Figure something out, did you.”  
  
“Gibbs knows something.”  
  
“Ah, the infamous Gibbs gut.”  
  
“It’s nothing concrete.”  
  
"It never is," Tony said. "And sometimes, it's wrong. I think that's a rule..."  
  
"What's that one. Rule Number 45?" Tim asked.  
  
"The forties are only for emergencies."  
  
"This situation feels like an emergency to me."  
  
Tony smirked. "So what are you doing snooping around the boss' lair?" He looked around, and he smiled again, softly, checking out the familiar surroundings of Gibbs’ basement. Most of it had been moved around, some of it boxed, so it wasn’t completely the same. “Digging around in the dirt some more? Looking for a lead?” He got up off the sawhorse, graceful even for an imagination of sorts, and he tried to touch the old analog television, but he couldn’t. “You won’t find one,” he said. “Not here.”  
  
“Did you see him?” Tim asked, referencing Gibbs and the shambles he now lived in.  
  
“’Course I did. Same head. Same eyes. You keep forgetting.”  
  
“He seems broken up about you. After you…” Tim trailed off. He never knew how to broach that subject with Tony.  
  
“You can say it, McGee, because you ought to know by now,” Tony spoke quietly. “Don’t be afraid to say it. It was what it was, and it is what it is.”  
  
They stared at each other, and the seconds turned into a couple minutes. Tim admitted, “I wanna give you peace.”  
  
“I’m touched by your concern,” Tony whispered, a small smile still on his face. “I wish I had a better ending for you, buddy.”  
  
“Then tell me where we can find you," Tim asked. "Just give me a clue. Something to go on.”  
  
“Like I said, I know it’s driving you crazy. You’ve figured most everything out on your own. I can’t just tell you.” Tony smirked. “Can’t break the ghost-code.”  
  
“Tony, come on. Ghost-code?”  
  
“You’re right. There’s no such thing as the ghost-code. I’m not a ghost.”  
  
Tim gave him a funny look. “If you say so.”  
  
“You don’t actually believe in ghosts, do you?” Tony asked.  
  
“You’ve forced me to,” Tim said.  
  
As Tony continued his circuitous walk-about around the basement, he eyed the spare, splintered lumber stacked up in the middle of the room.

Tim watched him, following his gaze. He had to ask, "What's the deal with all this wood down here?"

"It was a boat," Tony answered.

"A boat? In a basement?"

"Believe it, McGee. Rule number 60: Sometimes boats are built in basements."

"Huh?" 

"It's a DiNozzo rule, not a Gibbs rule."

"There's a difference?"

"Of course." Tony kept looking at the discarded pieces of wood. Some looked like they had met the business end of a sledgehammer.

"Now in a hundred pieces," Tim observed, quietly. He watched Tony stare at it, but he kept his mouth shut, for now.

Suddenly, Tony said, “I might have an idea. You want to give me peace?”  
  
Tim nodded, soberly.  
  
“Well, I don’t need your help,” Tony then said.  
  
Tim opened his mouth to argue. He remembered how he’d left Gibbs up there, glaring into the bedroom with a drunken stare. A whole wall lined with articles, case details, photographs. Dots to be connected. Dots to be disconnected. Trent Kort’s face with a bulls-eye on it. Because he knew… All the rocks had been turned over, all the snakes vanquished — except for one rock, and one snake. If Gibbs wasn’t a man tormented by the one mystery he ought to have been able to figure out, then Tim was blind man who ought to turn in his badge.  
  
He looked again at Tony with new eyes.   
  
“I don’t need your help,” Tony said. “But they do. Gibbs. Abby. Ziva. Ducky. All of them.”  
  
“Okay,” Tim said. “Okay. What do you need me to do then?”  
  
“I can’t tell you what happened." Tony took one last look around the basement and gave it a silent, sad goodbye. He refocused his attention on Tim. "But maybe I can _show_ you.”


	4. Bury Your Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some intense violence that could be disturbing to some.
> 
>    
>  _"Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel  
>  And ransom captive Israel  
> That mourns in lonely exile here  
> Until the Son of God appear."_
> 
> _\- Unknown_

_December 24, 2016 - Rural Virginia_

The car ride seemed interminable. Tony was there, but he wasn’t. Tim felt like he knew the directions by memory alone, though he knew that was impossible, because he’d never traveled this way before.

"Getting closer," Tony kept mumbling. "Not too far now."

And finally, after he’d driven a few miles along an unpaved road, Tim stopped the car and got out.

He stood in the sparse stand of woods. The breeze whistled through the pines, and the ground was soft with brown needles. “What’s the mystery?” Tim asked the space around him. He was met by nothing but silence. It began to snow, lightly at first, then heavily. “Tony?”

“ _Shh!_ ” Tony said from somewhere Tim could not see. “I’m thinking. I’ve never done this before. Give me a second.”

Tim stayed quiet. Snow began to collect on his coat as he waited, and waited, until — He hissed as sudden pain lanced through his temple. Eyes open wide in shock, he clutched his forehead and gasped.

“Is it working?” Tony asked from inside Tim’s head, genuinely curious.

Whatever had speared through his temple now seemed to twist around and burn. Tim gasped again. “My head! It’s going to explode! What are you doing?” he yelled breathlessly.

“Just hang in there, McTrooper—“

“McWhat?” Tim asked the cold air around him. He looked around blindly, and it took a bit for him to realize that he couldn’t see anything but black. The thing in his head did another violent twist, and Tim could feel himself fall to his knees. He held back the scream as he clutched his skull. He felt wet snow on his face and hands.

Then, suddenly, he could see. Not the woods he’d been standing in seconds before, but an office somewhere. A woman with red hair and a sharp pinstriped pantsuit talked to a man who looked like he hadn’t showered in two days. It took a bit for Tim to realize that was Tony, and the woman— she looked so familiar.

 

_“I’m not doing it,” Tony said. “It’s over, Jenny. The op is finished. My cover’s been blown, and I’m officially done with this circus.”_

_“Tony, let’s just finish this one out, okay?”_

_“Finish it out?” Tony said, incredulous. He argued, “It’s been barely 48 hours since I almost became Kentucky Fried Chicken in my own car. I think I’m well past done, and you know it.”_

_“You don’t have to use your cover, obviously. Just find him, before Kort does. Follow him. I know you’re good at that. I wouldn’t trust anybody else with this,” Director Shepard reasoned._

_“Bullshit, and pardon my French, Madam Director, but you know that’s bullshit.”_

_“I know there are certain things you wouldn’t want put into your personnel file. Don’t make me do something like that. I’ve always liked you, Tony.”_

_He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed about.”_

_“Leave now. Get a head start. I’m hungry for some Cuisses de Grenouille.” Director Shepard smiled as she tapped her finger on her desk. She knew it was only a matter of time before he folded. Tony DiNozzo was obedient, to a fault. And he was loyal, and he loved his job._

_“Fine,” Tony said, “but I’m only putting a couple hours into it. Got it? Then I’ll report to you, and that’s it. Then I’ll be done.”_

_“Then you’ll be done,” she agreed. "Thank you."_

_He heaved out a sigh and turned to go._

_She stopped him one more time, putting a hand on his elbow. “No one needs to know about this. They know what I’ve been doing. They’ll have my job if they know I’m pursuing it.”_

_Tony stared at her and decided that he’d rather not know. He just wanted to do his job and be done with it. “Understood.”_

_“Be careful, Tony.”_

_“Of course.”_

 

That scene melted away, and Tim breathed in relief… until the thing in his head shifted again. Unprepared, he couldn’t swallow the yelp.

“Sorry,” Tony said, “but I guess that’s what they mean when they say memories can be painful…”

Tim failed to laugh at Tony’s lame joke; he was too busy trying to keep his brain from falling out of his throbbing skull.

The scene changed. They were now on a boat of some sort, a yacht, judging by the well-to-do environs and the fact that the whole thing was bobbing up and down slightly. It was still tied to the dock.

 

_“How’d you find me?” Rene Benoit hissed as he faced Trent Kort._

_“You’re not very difficult to track.”_

_“I told you. I’m retiring. Can’t you take a hint?”_

_“No, you’re meeting some dealers in,” Kort checked his watch, “five minutes. We do this, or else we’ll have a problem.”_

_“W_ _e’ll have a problem? We already have a problem, Trent,” Benoit hissed. “People are trying to kill me. People are trying to kill my daughter. People are trying to kill people associated with my daughter. I cannot stand by and let this happen. I’m done. You want my business? You can have it.”_

_Kort laughed at him. “You act as if you have a choice.”_

_“I do have a choice, and I am making it, whether you approve or not. I was doing you a favor, but no more.” Benoit put his hand on something hidden in his suit jacket._

_Again, Kort laughed at him. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”_

_“No. I'm going to protect myself.”_

_Then, Benoit’s phone buzzed, and Kort stared at it, already knowing who the caller was._

_“You going to answer that, Rene? I don’t think they’ll like it if you don’t. Doesn’t your daughter have enough enemies?”_

_Benoit frowned as he took the call. “La Grenouille.” He listened and nodded. Then he hung up. “They want to meet outside.”_

_“Wonderful,” Kort said. “Shall we?” His gaze dropped to the gun he knew was on Benoit’s hip, and then up to meet him eye-to-eye._

_“Let’s.”_

 

“Let’s fast forward a bit," Tony said, freezing the scene. "There’s a lot of talk about arms dealing and such. All of which I was going to use against The Frog, until… well. You’ll see.”

“Where were you?” Tim managed to ask. The pain, thankfully, had receded, although he knew it would come again as soon as Tony switched around the memory-gears.

“I was being a good little agent. I was following him. I was watching. Just like I’d been told.”

“So what happened?”

“Shh, just _watch_.”

And that’s when the pain came again and Tim groaned, “Not again…”

 

_“We still on for the exchange next week?” Goon One asked. He looked the part: all beef, no brain._

_The second goon, Goon Two, looked a little more with it. He was littler, springier, and his eyes looked like they ought to belong to a weasel instead of a man. “Better be. I put a lot of work into this shipment.”_

_“We’ll accept it,” Kort cut in when he realized Benoit wasn’t going to say anything._

_Goon Two seemed to be the untrusting sort. “I’m sorry, but I can’t recall if we’ve dealt with you before?” The politeness was fake. This man looked more than ready to take matters into his own hands, violently._

_“You haven’t, but I’m the new business partner,” Kort explained._

_“I didn’t hear nothing about any new business partners,” Goon One said._

_Kort passed Benoit a look of exasperation, asking him to vouch for him._

_But when Benoit didn’t, Goon Two asked, bothered, “Who are you?”_

_That was when Benoit pulled out the gun and held it steady at Kort’s chest. “He’s not who you think he is.”_

_Goon One and Goon Two now looked truly concerned. “Then what—“_

_“Federal Agent!” somebody called out from further down the dock. Tony, dressed in jeans and a hooded zip-up, had his gun drawn as he approached the group. He knew this was probably the dumbest move he’d ever made in his career, and it was stupidly impulsive, but Kort had no back-up. Neither did Tony, but if they worked together… He couldn’t just sit around and watch another agent get screwed while undercover. Even if it was a spook, and even if it was Trent Kort. “Everybody on the ground!" Tony demanded. "Everybody on the fucking ground!”_

_“Fuck,” Goon Two swore. “Who called the goddamn cops?”_

_Everybody saw the badge clipped to Tony's pocket._

_“He did,” Kort suddenly said, pointing at Benoit. “He’s planning to get you all pinched, and why? Because he’s working with the feds. He’s trying to get out of the business. Can you believe that?”_

_“What are you talking about?” Benoit yelled. His finger was on the trigger and his hands were shaking._

_Goon Two asked, “Is that true?”_

_“Are you all deaf?” Tony hollered._

_Benoit finally looked at Tony. “DiNozzo. What are you doing here?”_

_“To be honest, I came here to apologize,” Tony half-lied, trying to buy some time. He honestly didn’t know what else to do, and he knew he’d just made the greatest mistake of his life. He could blame the lack of sleep, or anything else really. He shouldn’t have made this choice. He should have told Jenny no. He glanced briefly at Kort, for help, but then looked back at Benoit. “For lying to your daughter. Because I wasn’t who I said I was. But I fell in love with her, and I need you to tell her that. If you could.”_

_“Who the fuck is this guy?” Goon One asked in disbelief. “What the fuck is this?”_

_Tony said, “I have back-up on the way. At least five agents. They’ll be here any minute.”_

_Goon One laughed. He said, “Oh really. Five agents?” before pulling out his own gun and—_

 

“What happened?” Tim asked. “Why did you stop it?”

“I hate this part,” Tony admitted, deadpan. “Getting shot in the gut hurts like hell. I don’t recommend it.”

“He shot you? What about Benoit? What about Trent Kort? Why didn't he do something? Why did you put yourself in that position? Are you crazy?”

"Anybody ever tell you that you ask way too many questions? Keep watching."

 

_After the single gunshot, Tony got off his own shot, but it went wild. He fell, and with one arm grasping his gut, he tried to defend himself._

_But Goon One was already there, pointing the barrel at his skull point blank as he kicked Tony’s gun away._

_Tony froze._

_To the side, Kort watched, as did Benoit, who seemed transfixed by the sudden violence. Kort used Benoit's distraction to his own advantage. He stepped toward him and easily stripped him of his weapon. Then, he raised it, saying simply, "Your wish," as he put a bullet neatly in the center of La Grenouille's forehead. Before Benoit even had a chance to fall over dead, Kort pushed him off the pier._

_The splash seemed excessively loud._

_Goon Two began to laugh, hysterically._

 

Tim screamed and clutched his middle as he curled up around himself. The laughter reverberated around his aching head. He gasped, “Ah God, make it stop.”

“Why would I make it stop?” Tony asked him, matter of fact. “This is how it happened. Don’t you want to know?”

 

_“You shot him, you fool,” Kort barked at the Goons. “Now I have to clean this mess up. People will be looking for him. He's a fed.” He grabbed the badge from Tony's pocket and held it up for the Goons to see. "Look at this!"_

_“You shot La Grenouille," Goon Two countered._

_“Yes I did!” Kort said. “He was going to have you all pinched. He’s working with the feds, like I said.”_

_Tony heard them all from somewhere up above. He tossed his gaze around in confusion; he’d ended up on the ground, somehow, on the hard wood of the dock. A shadow soon blocked the sun. Kort stared down at him, and Tony gave him his best and most defiant grimace. He had some choice words on the tip of his tongue, but he could only hiss in pain. So instead, he had to ask for help, without words. He had to beg for it, silently._

_He didn’t know if Kort simply wasn’t paying attention, or if he just didn’t care. Or if he had some other plan._

_Goon Two had his own plans. He looked at Tony and said, “You have back-up?”_

_“Yes,” Tony lied. “They’re coming. They'll--”_

_Goon One suddenly pistol whipped him across the face. “Liar.”_

_Kort watched with outward dispassion as Tony groaned and held his face after the blow. “You two go on,” Kort suggested, trying to salvage the situation. “I’ll deal with things here.”_

_Goon Two stared at Kort long and hard. Then he approached him and stood so close, they were barely a foot apart. “No.”_

_Kort did not back away._

_“You get rid of him.” Goon Two pointed at Tony. “Somewhere where ain’t nobody gonna find him. You can do that, right?”_

_Kort nodded. There could still be a way—_

_“We’ll go with you,” Goon Two said. "I've got trust issues."_

 

“The Frog was found dead in the canal,” Tony narrated. “One shot to the head. As you know.”

There was a pause, and Tim could almost feel the chilly air coming off the canal and the harbor, regardless of the fact that in reality, they were miles and miles away. But he could smell the water now, too, and he could hear the sea birds. Everything was still and eerie. He could hear Tony's breathing, a comforting balm against what he knew was rapidly approaching.

“The CIA took official responsibility. They called it a sanctioned action,” Tim said. He remembered the reports verbatim. “But nobody knew for sure.”

“Sure,” Tony said, “‘sanctioned.’ No witnesses, except for me and the bad guys.”

The thing in Tim’s head cranked extra hard this time, and he almost blacked out. It was like a hot poker branding his brain matter from the inside out. He gagged and almost lost whatever he’d eaten last, which wasn’t much.

“Hey, pay attention now,” Tony said. “We’re getting to the grand finale.”

 

_‘Make it disappear’ was a good motto to have as a CIA officer, and Kort had known one thing while considering Tony’s limited options. There was the easy way and the hard way. The easy way left a dead body and too many questions. The hard way still left a dead body, but one that wasn’t likely to be found. Either way, he had to keep Operation Lodestone going, which meant he had to keep these two clowns happy, which also meant Tony had to be dealt with. That was the unfortunate reality._

_But fortunately, DiNozzo wasn’t looking well all on his own. He was lying on the ground now, both hands pressing into his gut, and he was panting. He looked dazed from the pistol whipping._

 

“What did they do to you?” Tim asked. He didn’t want to watch this anymore.

“Don’t look away," Tony said. "Don’t you want to see? What are you so afraid of?”

 

_Tony felt himself being dragged as he drifted between waking and darkness. The pain had short-circuited his brain, and now it was only a dull ache. He was still breathing when his body was finally allowed to rest on a hard bit of earth in some tract of woods._

_The Goons watched, silent and still. Goon One kept a gun out and aimed at Kort._

_“I won’t leave you here like this,” Kort promised quietly, breathing heavily from the exertion it took to drag a grown man from point A to point B. “None of this is personal, DiNozzo. I should thank you for showing up right when you did.”_

_"Is he dead or what?" Goon Two called out from his safe vantage point._

_"Yes," Kort answered loudly._

_Tony couldn’t speak. His brain moved slowly, as the bullet wound had already poisoned his body. He felt the dried grass prickling the side of his face. He felt the sun warming his cheek. And he breathed, quick and shallow, like a wounded, dying animal._

_"No he's not!" Goon Two yelled. "I just saw him move! Don't make me dig two graves for you idiots!"_

_"I meant, he will be." Then came the blackness as Kort tossed a dirty shirt over Tony’s face and aimed the pistol at his unmoving target. He was surprised to see his hand shaking._

_"Jesus Christ! Would you hurry it up already?" Goon Two yelled again._

_“God forgive me," Kort said, "for this evil."_

 

Tim clutched his head and sobbed as he sought relief, but eventually the pain in his gut began to subside. Slowly, he relaxed, chest hitching, although he didn’t move to get up. He simply lay on the ground and breathed heavily, as if he’d just run a few miles. Then he shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see anymore.

“They buried me,” Tony said.

 

_Kort and Goon One dug together, while Goon Two supervised._

_“It’s deep enough,” Kort finally said, sweating. “No one will find him out here.”_

_Goon Two nodded, satisfied. They wrapped Tony in an old blanket the Goons had in their vehicle’s trunk, and together they dragged him into the shallow grave. As they began piling dirt back into the hole, Kort stared at the brown hair poking out from under the blanket._

_Trent Kort was not a man of God, nor was he one who had any right to pray after what he'd done, but that was what he found himself doing. Silently, inwardly -- he prayed._

 

“Between those two trees,” Tony said. “Not very well, but it’s the thought that counts, right? I’m sure if the forensics people dig around for long enough they’ll find something.” Tony paused then went on. “So that’s what happened. Took a bit for my soul to check out, despite my brains being pretty well blown out.” He laughed, darkly.

Tim flinched, eyes still closed.

“Sometimes that happens when you’re not ready to die,” Tony added. “Takes a bit for the soul to catch up with the fact that you’re dead, and to figure out what it needs to do next.”

Eventually, Tim felt a strange tingling, then a warm, steadying hand gripped him around the elbow. Tim found himself looking down onto his own body lying on the ground. He looked at Tony next, who stood right beside him. He seemed almost real now, like Tim could reach out and… He finally noticed that Tony was actually touching him. The warmth of that hand surprised him.

Tony watched him carefully, waiting.

“Oh no,” Tim said. “Am I dead? Did I just die? What happened?”

Tony seemed amused by the question. “How would I know? You seemed alright until now. I’ve never done this before."

“I knew this was going to happen. I shouldn’t have followed you out here… out here to the middle of nowhere, where you could…”

“Where I could what?”

“Kill me? Leave me for dead? Haunt me? I don’t know!”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Revenge?” Tim yanked his elbow away. “Who says you’re a good ghost, huh? If you’ve been waiting this long…”

“Now you’re sounding crazy,” Tony said.

“Now I’m sounding crazy? _Now_? Just now? I’m talking to a ghost!”

“I’m not a ghost,” Tony said.

“Then what the fuck are you?” Tim yelled. "And I need a real answer!"

Tony shrugged. “Your brain?”

“This isn’t all just in my head,” Tim argued. “I saw what happened to you. I _felt_ what happened to you. And it was awful. What they did…" Tim swallowed the sudden sob that came, unbidden, "and I know what I felt and I know what I saw. You’ve showed me things I’d never know on my own.”

“You might have a point there.” Tony’s voice had gotten quiet, contemplative. “So what did you feel?” He sounded hopeful, in an odd, sad sort of way. “I haven’t felt anything in years. Except now.” Tony reached out with both hands and gripped Tim by the biceps. “You’re an actual person. All warm, and real. It’s so lonely out here,” Tony blurted. “When I found you, I…”

This time, Tim allowed the touch, awkwardly. He stood frozen in place. “You what?”

“I knew what I wanted you to do, because you were perfect for it.”

“Perfect for what?”

“I just felt like I’d known you, and I felt like I missed you. I thought you’d understand all of this.” He waved around himself.

“I’ve never met you before in my life, Tony. I’ve seen you, once or twice, but I never knew you and you never knew me,” Tim said.

Tony looked sad. “I know, but now I don’t want this to end. I’m selfish. I know I can’t keep any of this. Can't keep you here. I’ve been dead for nine years. I can’t deal with being this alone anymore. That's why I need you to give them peace so they can let me go.”

“I’ll try, Tony.” Tim felt the lump growing at the back of his throat. “I’ve been trying.”

“Promise?”

Tim nodded, face solemn.

“So what did you feel?” Tony asked again, quietly.

“Pain,” Tim said. And then, after a pause, “Terror.”

“I remember that,” Tony said.

“You were afraid.”

Tony nodded.

“Why’d he have to do that to you?” Tim suddenly asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"I don’t know why.”

Tim looked around again, at his body curled up in the snowy grass.

“I think some people call this an ‘out of body experience,’” Tony explained before Tim could ask.

“It’s as advertised.” Tim noticed that Tony was still gripping his arms. “You can let go of me now.”

“You need to let go of me, too, you know.”

“I thought you said you were in my head. I can’t exactly let a part of my head go.” Tim watched Tony’s hands fall away, and he didn’t like the feeling it left him with. It was a strange mixture of sadness and loneliness. It felt like an empty space, a coda that remained unfinished.

“Maybe.” Tony’s answer was cryptic.

“Maybe what?”

“It’s probably time for me to get you back where you belong, Mc... McGee. I’ve kept you too long. I think there’s a time limit on the whole out-of-body-experience thing. One of us might turn into a pumpkin. Can never be too careful…”

“Wait—“

“You have a phone call to make. A mystery to solve. Probably a few questions to answer, but I’m sure you’ll do okay. I’ve got faith in you, buddy. Fate picked a good one, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I mean that, Very Special Agent Timothy McGee.”

“Wait!” Tim reached to grab onto Tony again, but his hands went through nothing but cold air.

“Don’t go forgetting about me, okay?” Tony smiled.

“Wait a minute!” Things around him began to pull away, leaving him nothing but soft, suffocating darkness. “What am I going to tell them? What should I tell them to make them believe?”

This time Tony didn’t bother replying, because he wasn’t there anymore, not by Tim’s side or in his head or even somewhere else unseeable.

Tony had been dead for years, and the dead had to stay dead.

“How am I going to explain this? Damn you! Tony!” Tim found himself screaming into nothing.

The void spread out all around him, and soon he realized he was lying on the hard ground. He sat up quickly. It was freezing cold out here. Snow softly fell from the slate gray sky overhead, sticking to the trees and the grass.

“I won’t forget you!” he begged and begged, at nothing but the humble trees and the humble rocks and — somewhere under the dirt — the humble remains of a good man. He begged until he realized how ridiculous he sounded, and how deeply he’d fallen into his own madness.

From what cliff he’d tumbled off of, Tim couldn’t know. To save a soul that didn’t need saving, and had never asked for it.  
  


**  
  


He made the call, and a few minutes of poking by the forensic techs led to a find that Tim both expected and dreaded.

Hours afterward, rumors spread around the nearby small town that some cop had been killed years ago and buried in the woods not too far from their homes and their schools. The nearest city was Roanoke, and even that was a trek. The media came unbidden, like flies to a carcass, to seize on the unconfirmed story.

Tim stood in front of them, blinded by the spotlights.

“Evil happened here,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth automatically. His hands shook. He hated public speaking, and even though he had no script, he felt like at this moment, he was straying from what ought to be scripted.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he went on. “For those of you who pray, I hope, uh — I’d like you to pray for the person who was murdered here. And for those of you who don’t pray, uh—” he stuttered a little bit, “well, I’m sure he could use some positive thoughts. Nine years is a long time to be lost,” Tim swallowed, and he looked directly at the cameras, “but it’s never too late to be found.”

After that weird little speech, he’d gone quiet, and then the questions started up, all of them blending together into the buzz.

“Is it confirmed that the remains belong to the missing NCIS agent?” “Do you have a suspect?” “Who was the anonymous tipster?” “Why has it taken so long to find a body?” “Is there a weapon?” “Is the community safe?” “How did you know?” “How did you know?” “How did you know?”

Tim stared at them dumbly until Fornell put an arm around his shoulders. He spoke to the cameras in lieu of Tim. “The FBI will put out an official statement as soon as we have more information.” He herded Tim toward his sedan. “You need a ride back to Norfolk?” he spoke into his ear.

“No, no. It’s okay,” Tim said, teeth chattering from the cold. “It’s a three hour drive.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world for you,” Fornell said. “You did good, Agent McGee. You did very good.”


	5. Not Calling You a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"And all this too shall pass  
>  This loneliness won't last for long."_
> 
> _\- Gale Song, The Lumineers_

_December 24, 2016 – NCIS Norfolk Field Office_  
  
“Hey Kiddo,” Kowalski said with uncommon patience, and even more uncommon gentleness, as he settled into the chair next to Tim in Norfolk’s small conference room.   
  
Tim didn’t exactly recall how he’d gotten in here. He remembered that Fornell had been driving. He remembered watching nothing but blackness outside the window. He remembered yelling at Tony: “I won’t forget you!” And he remembered how they touched, and how they were both warm and human. Tony had been living and breathing, right there, with him. Right there...  
  
He pressed his hands against his face and lowered his forehead toward the surface of the table.  
  
The lights bared down on them, and they seemed to buzz and vibrate.  
  
Accusingly.  
  
Had he sounded like an idiot on camera? Had he run his mouth about things he shouldn’t have disclosed? Did he look half-crazy? Or full-crazy?  _Was_  he half-crazy? Or full-crazy? He had to be. Who could explain any of this? What sane person could? Would it effect his credibility? He needed them to believe. Tony needed them to believe.  
  
Tim didn’t look at Kowalski. He kept staring at the table top while his brain worked, as it struggled and sputtered to find some kind of viable explanation for today’s events. He had nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
  
Tony had given him the truth, but nothing else. He knew he shouldn’t fault him for that, but…  
  
“How the hell did you find yourself all the way out there? Care to provide some insight?” Kowalski broached the subject. Gently, at least, in his own way.  
  
Tim finally seemed to wake up.  
  
“How’d you know where to find where he’d been dumped?”  
  
Tim answered honestly, and openly, “I don’t know.”  
  
“Really? You don’t know.”  
  
“ _I don’t know_ ,” Tim repeated as he looked at the table. “Sometimes you just have to take what you’re given, and sometimes it doesn’t make any fucking sense. Okay? They found something there. It’s him.” Tim nodded and kept nodding, almost frenetically. “It’s definitely him.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Kowalski said. “I believe you.” He said it like he didn’t actually believe him, but when a man was ranting and raving…   
  
They sat there in silence for a while.   
  
Then Kowalski offered, “The lab will be able to verify—“  
  
“It’s him,” Tim said again.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I sounded like a whack-job,” Tim said, “on the news.”  
  
“Don’t worry about that—”  
  
“You know I did. Stop trying to be nice about it. What was I even talking about? Evil? Praying?” Tim shook his head and then closed his eyes in order to breathe.  
  
“For what it’s worth,” Kowalski said, “I think you struck a chord with folks.”  
  
“I, uh—“ Tim stopped himself before he revealed more than he ought to. He’d felt the pain, and he’d felt the raw fear. He’d stared Tony’s death in its ugly face, and he’d endured it, saw it for what it was. It would haunt him for a while, forever maybe. 

"What's that?"  
  
“It's nothing,” Tim said, finally. “There’s somewhere I should probably be. My car’s out in the woods still. Fornell drove me here.” He didn't the long trip back to Norfolk. He felt numb, out-of-place, vacant.  
  
Kowalski reached out a hand and squeezed Tim’s shoulder. Tim was so out of it that he didn't even notice the casual kindness. “Alright, Tim.” He squinted at his watch. “Coupla hours left of this Christmas Eve. Where to?”

  
  
***

  
  
_December 25, 2016 – 0100 – McGee’s mother’s house, Maryland_  
  
Snow piled thick on the yard and the front stoop. Only a few footsteps had disturbed it. They probably were from Sarah when she’d gotten here, hours ago — when Tim should’ve been here, too.   
  
He watched the tail lights of Bartow’s car disappear around the corner, and he was left in the pale circle of the porch light left on for a stray son and brother. He could see the Christmas tree through the front window lit up with happy multi-colors.  
  
Tim looked behind him. The residential street was quiet and still. Fat flakes fell slowly from a black sky. They stuck to his hair, his coat, his eyelashes. Icicle lights illuminated the landscape with an eerie glow. He hesitated, and then he knocked on the door.  
  
Finally, it opened.   
  
“ _Sarah_ ,” Tim said with an emotional croak.  
  
“What happened?” Sarah asked. “We saw you on the news.”  
  
Tim shook his head, and he walked into Sarah’s embrace and hugged her tight. “I’m sorry.” He felt tears sting his eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry, too,” Sarah said into his shirt. “What happened, Tim?”  
  
“I found him.”  
  
“Who?” Sarah asked.  
  
Tim shook his head.  
  
“I’m too hard on you,” Sarah admitted. “I’m so glad you're here.”  
  
Tim just hugged her even tighter. “Promise me we’ll be all right.”  
  
“We will be." She was crying now, too. "We’ll be all right, Tim.”

  
  
***

  
  
_January 15, 2017 – NCIS Headquarters, Washington D.C._  
  
“Ballistics came back on the slugs and the casings found by the forensic anthropologists,” Fornell spoke to the small group assembled in Vance’s office.   
  
The director of the CIA sat side-by-side with Sec-Nav and other key figureheads involved in the intelligence community.  
  
“And?” Vance seemed curious. He crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk. He didn’t want to take this news sitting down, and he dealt with the stress by chewing on a toothpick wedged between his front teeth.  
  
“They match a gun currently held up in evidence by the ATF. Unrelated case, seemingly.”  
  
“Probably a stolen gun,” Vance suggested.  
  
The CIA director continued to watch coolly from his end of the table, hands loosely folded in front of him.  
  
Fornell said, “The gun belongs to CIA officer Trent Kort.”  
  
“Like I said,” Vance said, “probably stolen. Was it reported?”  
  
“I don’t think you’re understanding what I’m saying,” Fornell spoke slowly. “The gun was released into evidence by Trent Kort himself. He was involved in an illegal arms deal that went south, but because he’s working with you people, he’s granted immunity. He relinquished the gun and that was that.”  
  
The CIA director did not even flinch, even while Vance cracked the toothpick in half with his teeth.  
  
“An NCIS Special Agent was murdered,” Fornell clarified, “with that gun.”  
  
Vance rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefingers.  
  
“How badly do you want justice, Director Vance?” Fornell asked, “because this is a helluva ugly skeleton we just unearthed from your closet.”  
  
“We never knew about Shepard’s personal vendetta until it was too late,” Vance reasoned. “DiNozzo never should have been involved with La Grenouille in the first place. I knew nothing about what she’d been doing, or what she had Tony doing for her.”  
  
“It’s convenient,” Fornell said, deadpan, “to rest all blame there. Perhaps we should also blame Agent DiNozzo for his own slaying.” He looked rather unamused. “I smell bullshit. We know that Trent Kort has sanctioned murder in defense of CIA initiatives. This might be a logical progression, right? DiNozzo got in the way, and Rene Benoit became unusable. So might as well delete both of them. Isn’t that right?”  
  
Finally, the CIA director looked directly at the intelligence officers on the other side of the table and said, “We need to be very cautious here. I think there might have been extenuating circumstances. Over the past several years, Operation Lodestone has diverted millions worth of illegal arms away from terrorist groups and rogue states and totalitarian dictators, the same people who propagate misery and civil war across the globe. That's the point of this operation’s existence. What my officer does to ensure its integrity is necessary. Large scale arms trade is all but dead because of Lodestone, and because of Trent Kort's service to our agency. The number of lives saved due to his dedication to the job should not be overlooked.”  
  
“So now murdering a federal agent is necessary?” Fornell asked, incredulously. “You believe that?”  
  
“Unfortunately,” the CIA director said, “I have to. War is ugly, Special Agent Fornell. And so are the spoils sometimes. I feel deeply sorry for whatever happened to that NCIS agent.”  
  
“So that’s it.” Fornell looked at them.  
  
Vance paced a couple times, wall to wall, a hand running over his head.  
  
“That’s really it,” Fornell repeated.  
  
Sec-Nav Sarah Porter looked to the intelligence officials. “Is this something we can live with?”  
  
The silence sounded like a “yes.”  
  
“You’re making a good choice,” the CIA director said. “A tough choice, but the right one. Our people will be doing a debrief with Officer Kort soon, and he’ll receive counseling regarding the incident.”  
  
“You're fucking kidding me. You find me somebody to pin this on,” Fornell demanded. “If it’s not going to be Kort, it’s going to be somebody. Somebody needs to pay for what’s been done here, because it’s not right.”  
  
“I agree,” Vance suddenly said. “I can’t allow the murder of an NCIS agent to be swept under some rug. The entire situation is reprehensible.”  
  
Nodding, the CIA director promised, “We’ll look into it.”  
  
“You do that,” Fornell warned, “or I’ll be first in line with a warrant to arrest your officer.”

  
  
***

  
  
_January 16, 2016 – Nick’s Bar, Washington D.C._  
  
The day’s headline read: Slaying of Federal Agent Remains Unsolved Despite New Evidence.  
  
Tim put the paper down and watched Gibbs slide slowly into the booth seat opposite of him. The local D.C. cop bar was pretty quiet this time of day. “You made it,” Tim said, mildly surprised.  
  
Gibbs looked like he’d taken a shower, and his eyes — still bloodshot — at least looked clearer than Tim remembered. “Had to.”  
  
“Had to, why?”  
  
Gibbs gave him a look. “For myself,” he finally said, “for all of them, maybe.” He let silence hang above them awkwardly before he added, “for Tony.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Tim indicated at the paper that he’d sloppily refolded. “We’re back to square one,” he said with disgust. “Fornell says their hands are tied.”  
  
“Rule 11.” Gibbs took the paper and breezed through the article.  
  
Tim stayed quiet.  
  
Gibbs looked at him over the paper. He then refolded it, neater than Tim had, and set it gently on the table. “You did your job, Tim.”  
  
“Nine years is a long time to be lost,” Tim said, echoing what he’d said during that bizarre news interview.  
  
“But it’s never too late to be found,” Gibbs finished.  
  
Tim’s eyes widened. “You saw that?”  
  
“Who didn’t.” Then he smirked. “You’re famous now.”  
  
Tim frowned. “I was sorta hoping it would be lost in the annals of bad live broadcast television.”  
  
Gibbs actually chuckled, and Tim gave him a curious look. “You did your job,” Gibbs repeated, “Walk away. Then there’s rule 10.”  
  
Annoyed, Tim asked, “Should I be writing these down or something?”  
  
“Or something.”  
  
“So what’s that one?”  
  
“Never get personally involved in a case.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Tim defended himself. Although he knew that was a bald-faced lie.  
  
“It’s hard, I know. Look how I ended up.”  
  
“So how have you ended up?” Tim asked.  
  
“Alive. Bit beat up, but alive.”  
  
“That’s a start.”  
  
“Yes, McGee. Yes, it is.”  
  
“Oh hey,” Tim remembered something, changing the subject. “I’ve got something for you.” He dug in his bag and pulled a slightly crumpled photograph out of his messy computer bag. He slid it toward Gibbs, and he shrugged. “Thought maybe you’d want it.”  
  
Gibbs took it and squinted at it. In the photograph, he and Tony stood side by side. Both smiled at the camera, but Tony did most of the mugging. “Ah.” Some unnamed emotion tugged at Gibbs’ lips and made him want to grin. He said quietly, “Mr Smiley himself.”  
  
He stared at the picture for a long time until Tim started to get uncomfortable.  
  
“You know Stan Burley?” Gibbs suddenly asked.  
  
Tim was caught off-guard by the non-sequitur question. “I’ve met him once or twice,” Tim said.  
  
“He wants to talk to you.”  
  
“He does?” Tim seemed confused.  
  
“One of his agents is leaving for the cyber people. He’s looking for a replacement who can pull his own weight without much training.”  
  
“Oh, well, I’m not sure—”  
  
“I talked to Kowalski.”  
  
Tim appeared vaguely annoyed. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Gibbs, but I’m not sure I need you to vouch for—“   
  
“I didn’t vouch for you. I was making sure you weren’t batshit crazy,” Gibbs said. “I’ve got people still doing the job. Gotta look out for them.”   
  
“Oh,” was all Tim could say.  
  
“My pull in that agency ended after I went off the rails after Tony… and after I pushed everybody away.”  
  
The bluntness of Gibbs’ words struck Tim. But although they were blunt, they were no less heartfelt. Gibbs, proud as he was, had clearly been brought to his knees all those years ago. Only now was he figuring out how to stand again.  
  
“Your boss vouched for you,” Gibbs explained.  
  
“Oh,” Tim said again.  
  
“I just wanted to clue you in before somebody sprang it on you tomorrow. You look like a planner.”  
  
“I guess I am,” Tim admitted.  
  
“Rule 5.”  
  
“Another rule. What’s this one? Never leave the house without clean underwear?”  
  
“No,” Gibbs said. “You don’t waste good.” Tim sat still as the older man leaned over the table and tapped him once the cheek. “You’re good, kid.” Then Gibbs got up. He nudged the newspaper. “Remember what matters.”  
  
Without another word, Tim watched as Gibbs approached the wall of fallen law enforcement officers and took a moment to tuck the photograph among the others. He saw Gibbs’ lips move, but he couldn’t hear what he said.

 

 

**the end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, readers and fans, for being such a wonderful audience. I write these stories from a place of great love -- not necessarily for the series anymore, but for the characters. Not my sandbox, but it's fun to dig around in it! :)
> 
>  
> 
> .....Sequel?


End file.
